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IN QUEST OF ADVENTURE 


















































































































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The child looked at Refugio for some time. — See page 169 


IN QUEST 
OF ADVENTURE 


BY 

MARY E. MANNIX 

Author of “ The Peril of Dionysio,” “As True as Gold,” 
“ The Children of Cupa,” etc. 



NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OP BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 

1914 


■Pza 

.VI 323 

31 (Y\ 


Copyright, 1914, by Benziger Brothers 


MAR 25 1914 



©Cl. A 3 71037 

f 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Planning . 7 

II The Start .20 

III The Return . 36 

IV My Father’s Adventure ... 49 

V The House With the Golden 

Windows 64 

VI The Strange Old Man . . .78 

VII Tonita . 92 

VIII Francois . . . .... 105 

IX The New Boat 118 

X The Grotto of the Frogs . . 130 

XI New Acquaintances 145 

XII A Discovery 159 


5 



IN QUEST OF ADVENTURE 

CHAPTER I 

PLANNING 

I must have been about eleven years 
old, my brother was only nine. We 
had been living for some time in the coun- 
try, the doctors having declared it neces- 
sary for my health, as I was a very deli- 
cate, though a very active boy. We were 
great friends, my brother and I; fond of 
collecting birds’ eggs and butterflies; and 
great readers also, delighting in stories of 
travel and adventure. 

We played at being fishermen as well, 
and were fond of getting up early in the 
morning and going down to the stream 
which ran behind the garden, though we 
seldom caught anything worth while; we 
were not patient enough. 

7 


8 Planning 

We were more proficient (according to 
our own honest opinions) in the arts of 
savage life, fancying ourselves trappers or 
warriors. We would walk Indian file for 
an entire morning, without any direct ob- 
ject in so doing, except that of imagining 
ourselves red men of the forest on the 
war-path, though we never encountered 
or were surprised by our enemies. Again, 
we would make the air hideous with what 
we imagined were Indian yells and cries, 
though luckily the scene of these perform- 
ances was far enough removed from the 
house not to disturb the other inmates. 
We had a system of signs and silent ges- 
tures so numerous and complicated that 
in the end they were not understood even 
by ourselves; but that made them, we 
thought, all the more mysterious. Our 
implements of warfare consisted of two old 
hatchets, which we brandished aloft and 
swung about incessantly when the fever of 
war was on, but we took care not to use 


Planning 9 

them in any more formidable manner, as 
we had only each other to practise upon. 
When evening came, and we were too 
tired to do anything else, we endeavored 
for half an hour to please our good 
mother, who was a French woman, by 
reading the stories of the excellent Count- 
ess de Segur, who, however, failed to 
satisfy our more warlike tastes. She 
seemed to us very namby-pamby ish after 
such enthralling and soul-curdling tales 
as “The Bear Hunter,” “Young Boers 
in Vacation Time,” “The Battle of the 
Bisons,” “Children of the Prairie,” and 
“Gerard, the Lion Killer.” How well I 
remember the fire which filled my veins, 
as, carried away by enthusiasm, I would 
fling aside the book from me while I 
quoted, in a ringing boyish voice, the fol- 
lowing apostrophe : 

“Followers of St. Hubert, my brothers! 
It is to you that I address myself. Night 
is falling. The forest is deep. You are 


10 Planning 

in the midst of perils from wild beasts as 
numerous as the boughs of the trees be- 
neath which you seek shelter ; so fierce and 
loud-voiced as to drown the noise of the 
mightiest thunder !” 

Ah! how I entered into the spirit of 
that woodland rendezvous; yes, though 
the thought of it made me tremble from 
head to foot. I remember especially on 
one of these occasions having determined 
to search on the morrow for some such 
dusky impenetrable shades as those above 
described. At the same time I knew that 
if found we would encounter therein 
neither lions, bears, wolves, bisons, nor 
troops of wild boars, snapping with their 
long fangs at the trunks of the trees 
where we had taken refuge. However, 
this did not make my appetite for im- 
aginary adventures any the less keen; on 
the contrary it only whetted it. 

The following morning I rose with my 
determination strengthened by the cheer- 


Planning 11 

ing light of day. For the first time in 
our lives my brother and I looked wist- 
fully afar — afar at the blue distance we 
had never before wished to penetrate. 

What lay beyond? we asked each other. 
Forests, perhaps as dense and dangerous 
as those within whose bosky depths St. 
Hubert’s disciples had found refuge. 
But how to reach them? We did not 
voice our thoughts, but we knew without 
speaking of it that if we asked permission 
to go so far afield it would be promptly 
and positively denied us. But in our 
hearts all the time was the mutual con- 
viction that a way would be opened for 
us by the force of circumstances. Our 
father and mother were going to town to 
be absent three days. I said to my 
brother, 

“Maurice, we must get over yonder.” 

“But how can we?” he responded. 
“Papa and mama would never let us 
go — if we asked them.” 


12 Planning 

“If we asked them. No. But we 
shall not ask them.” 

“You would never go without permis- 
sion, Martin?” 

“Suppose they should not be here when 
we wanted to go.” 

“Oh yes, that’s so,” was the rejoinder, 
and we said no more. But we understood 
each other. Now indeed we were to tread 
in the footsteps of those whom in our 
secret hearts we had long desired to 
emulate. There was to be a spice of guilt, 
also, in the adventure — just enough to 
add a new element to our ambition. I do 
not know what excuses my brother made 
to himself in his heart, but I reasoned 
thus: “We do not want to go — to-day. 
We do not wish to be away when papa 
and mama are about to start.” 

“No,” said Maurice in a low uncertain 
voice — looking shyly into my eyes. I 
turned away. I could not bear to con- 
front what I saw there. 


Planning 13 

Father and mother were gone. 
Scarcely had they departed before we be- 
gan to make our preparations. 

“Maurice,” said I. “Those woods over 
yonder are not so very far away, are 
they?” 

“No,” he replied. “I think they are 
very near.” 

“So they are,” I continued. “Wouldn’t 
you like to go over and see?” 

“Yes, you’re not afraid?” 

“Afraid! With our hatchets and 
clubs — and my bow and arrow. No, in- 
deed.” 

“Shall we tell Frances?” Frances was 
our old nurse. She had been in the family 
twenty years. She adored us; we tyran- 
nized over her in a not disagreeable 
way. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” I rejoined, care- 
lessly. “Let us get our things together, 
Maurice.” 

At dinner time I said, “Frances, 


14 Planning 

Maurice and I are going over there to- 
morrow.’' 

“Over where?” the old woman inquired. 

“Just across the road,” I replied. 
“Where those trees are.” 

“All right!” said Frances. I did not 
dare to mention luncheon, as I felt it 
might give Frances cause for speculation. 
Besides, an ordinary lunch would have de- 
prived our project of some of its adven- 
turous features. Who ever heard of ex- 
plorers packing bread and chicken with 
jelly, fruit, and cake in a commonplace 
chip basket? No, indeed! I was deter- 
mined that nothing of the kind should 
take away from the picturesqueness of our 
proposed sally. During the afternoon I 
got a huge piece of dry bread from the pan- 
try, with a large onion, a vegetable, by the 
way, that neither of us would ever touch. 
Putting them together in a paper sack, I 
hid them in the toolhouse, where I knew 
they would not be seen by anyone else. 


Planning 15 

“Call us at five, Frances,” I said, as we 
prepared to go up to bed. 

“At five!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that 
very early?” 

“Well — it is,” I replied. “But we 
thought it would be fun to get up earlier 
than usual, and have our work in before 
the heat of the day.” 

“What work?” inquired the old woman, 
who was very matter-of-fact. 

“Oh, I meant our walk — our journey, 
our — oh, nothing!” 

“All right,” said the compliant Frances. 
“I’ll call ye.” 

And so she did. I, for one, was very 
sleepy, but realizing the magnitude of the 
adventure I speedily roused myself. 
Maurice also was equal to the occasion. 
We dressed hurriedly and hastened down- 
stairs, where we found Frances awaiting 
us with a comfortable breakfast of sau- 
sage and buckwheat cakes. We ate 
heartily, the spirit of adventure not being 


16 Planning 

strong enough to destroy our normal boy- 
ish appetites. 

“I am not so sure, boys, if your father 
and mother would like this,” said Frances, 
who had probably taken counsel of her 
usual prudent self over night. 

“They like us to be out,” I replied, my 
mouth full of buckwheat cakes. 

“Yes, so they do,” rejoined Frances. 
“But it is within the grounds, Maurice. 
You are meaning to go outside?” 

“Yes, Frances,” I replied. “But there 
is no danger in going over there. We are 
not very little boys. It isn’t because 
papa and mama are afraid that we do 
not go away. It is that our own grounds 
are so large.” 

“That may be,” replied Frances. 
“But that is the very reason, because they 
are so large, that I don’t see the need of 
your leaving them. I’ve really been 
thinking.” 

“No, Frances!” I hurriedly inter- 


Planning 17 

rupted, “after we have gone and got 
everything ready you are not going 
to—” 

“Easy, easy, Martin,” interrupted 
Frances in her turn. “I said you might 
go, and you may. But be home early.” 

To this injunction neither Maurice 
nor myself made reply. Indeed my 
brother had been unusually silent; the im- 
portance of the expedition we were un- 
dertaking had deeply impressed him. 
His blue eyes sparkled, his pink cheeks 
grew pinker, he was impatient to be gone. 
Frances saw us to the door, and left us, 
telling us to take care of ourselves and 
not get lost. We assured her that she 
need have no fears; I did at least. 
Maurice took . her thin cheeks in both 
hands and kissed her. The old woman 
smiled; she liked his little coaxing ways. 
After she had closed the door we stole 
around the side of the house to the tool- 
shed. The servants were not yet down- 


18 Planning 

stairs. Lying on a deal table, where we 
had placed them the night before, were 
our hatchets, supplemented by a pair of 
heavy clubs, two slings, a bag containing 
stones for the slings, though why we bur- 
dened ourselves with them when they 
were to be found in abundance in the 
neighborhood I can not tell. Probably 
we were of the opinion that pioneers were 
in the habit of loading themselves down 
with accouterments. There was also the 
paper bag containing the bread and 
onion, to stay our hunger in the unknown 
wilderness toward which we were faring. 
We divided the burdens, I taking the 
bag of stones, being the strongest. As 
we passed through the gate we looked at 
each other, an involuntary emotion of 
uncertainty seizing our hearts. We 
stood in the middle of the road and looked 
about us. Up and down the broad dusty 
pathway we had often been, but across, 
beyond the zig-zag fence we had never set 


Planning 19 

foot. On one side some bright-colored 
larches invited us; on the other a grove 
of older trees. A couple of Mexican 
canaries in one of the spreading oaks be- 
gan to sing. 

‘'Let us go that way,” said Maurice, 
pointing in their direction. 

“Yes,” I rejoined, “I like it better. 
Come.” 

We climbed the fence, soon penetrating 
the miniature forest so far that we came 
to a broad opening through which flowed 
a narrow but rapid stream. Wild 
flowers grew along its mossy banks, 
rushes waved in the wind above them. 
Forgetting the purpose of our quest — the 
encounter with savages or at least wild 
beasts in the forest, we seated ourselves 
on the border of the stream. We felt fa- 
tigued, but delighted. We were in an 
enchanted land. 


CHAPTER II 


THE START 



s we sat there looking around us, we 


jLJL could have imagined ourselves miles 
away from home, and probably did; 
I, at least, fancied that we were trans- 
ported to a new world. At that moment 
I realized for the first time how strictly 
we had been brought up, how narrow, 
as to space, had been our environment. I 
drew long breaths of freedom. I 
yearned to be up and going once more. 
But Maurice felt tired; so he said with 
a yawn when I suggested that we begin 
to move, 

“There is no hurry,” stretching himself 
on the thick grass. “We were up so 
early. I am sleepy.” 

“Well, sleep then,” I replied, giving 
way to a yawn myself, the approach of 


20 


The Start 


21 


which I had not at all suspected. I lay 
down beside him. When I opened my 
eyes the sun was quite high in the heavens. 
I looked at my watch; it was ten o’clock. 
My brother still slept. “Wake up, wake 
up, Maurice!” I cried, shaking him. He 
opened his blue eyes, very, very slowly. 
“Come,” I said. “The day will be over 
before we have done anything.” 

“I am hungry!” answered Maurice. 

“And I believe I am too,” I rejoined, 
opening the paper sack and taking out 
the bread, which I broke in four pieces. 

“Two for now, two for another time,” 
I said, looking ruefully at the onion, 
which I had forgotten to peel. 

“Must we eat some of it?” inquired 
Maurice with an inflection of disgust in 
his tone. 

“Yes, why not?” I replied. 

“But why?” he queried. 

“To season our bread. The peasants 
do it in books.” 


22 


The Start 


“But we are not peasants; we are 
American boys.” 

“It is wholesome. It keeps scurvy 
away,” said I. 

“Oh, that is for sailors on ships. Do 
throw it away, Martin,” pleaded Maurice. 

I shook my head firmly. “No,” I re- 
plied. “It is wholesome,” and peeling the 
detested vegetable I bit a piece, and 
handed the remainder to Maurice. But 
he shut his lips resolutely, “No, I shan’t 
eat it,” he said. “I would rather have a 
drink of water.” 

“Why did I forget to fetch a bottle 
full,” said I. 

“What was the need?” asked Maurice. 
“There is water right in front of us. A 
tin cup would have been better than a bot- 
tle.” 

“We can drink from our caps,” I said. 

“They will be all wet if we do,” re- 
joined Maurice, almost brutally, I 
thought. “It is only when some one is 


The Start 


23 


lying wounded and bleeding on the bank 
of a stream that they bring him water in 
a cap.” 

“How shall we drink, then?” I inquired. 

“On our hands and knees,” replied my 
brother. “That is how to do it.” 

“Of course it is!” I exclaimed joyfully, 
and rushing to the brook we leaned over 
it, and at the imminent risk of falling in 
we quenched our thirst. The water was 
warm, and rather muddy, but we wiped 
our lips with our handkerchiefs, and again 
shouldering our packs, or what stood for 
packs, we resumed our way. On and on 
we trudged, without meeting a single 
soul, or seeing the outline of a single house 
in the distance. The stream grew wider ; 
after a while we began to see that we must 
either return or contrive some way of 
crossing it. Until now we had been able 
to pursue our journey by stepping over 
it; this was no longer possible. 

“It is a snaky thing,” said Maurice. 


24 The Start 

“See how it winds in and out, up and 
down.” 

“It is pretty, though,” said I, turning 
to look at the silver ribbon stretching be- 
hind us as far as the eye could reach. 

“Yes, but how shall we get across? 
If we don’t find a way we shall not be 
home by noon.” 

“Do you want to be home as early as 
that?” I inquired in some surprise. “I 
thought we were going to explore.” 

“That is what we have been doing all 
the morning. I am awfully tired,” said 
my brother. 

I grew impatient. “I’m afraid you are 
too much of a girl,” I said. “You would 
not be a successful pioneer at all, Mau- 
rice.” 

“I would if I had to,” was the re- 
joinder, given a little sullenly. “But I 
don’t have to.” 

“All right,” I replied. I was really 
somewhat fatigued myself, although I did 


The Start 


25 


not wish to acknowledge it. “Shall we 
wade through the water?” 

“It is too deep,” answered my brother, 
peering into the stream. “And there are 
little round holes in it. We might get 
stuck.” 

“Let us cut down a tree, then,” said I. 
“We can make a bridge and creep over 
it, on our hands and knees.” 

“Where is the tree?” asked Maurice. 

“The woods are full of them,” I re- 
joined. 

“Yes, but they are too big.” 

“Yonder on the bank, standing all 
alone is a little tree,” I replied. “Shall 
we cut that down with our hatchets? I 
will be Robinson Crusoe and you can be 
my Man Friday.” 

“All right,” said Maurice gaily. We 
seized our dull hatchets, and began to 
hack at the tree, a small poplar. Now 
and then in our labors we would hit each 
other, instead of the tree. 


26 


The Start 


“Let us play we are Indians fighting,” 
said Maurice, after a particularly severe 
whack he had given me. “It won’t hurt 
so much then, if we get excited.” 

“That’s a good idea,” I responded. 
And we fell to work once more. At last 
the tree began to groan, to sway, to fall. 
Responsive to our desires, it dropped in 
a straight line across the stream; I went 
first, dragging the axes and clubs beside 
me through the water; my brother fol- 
lowed. On the other side we sat down, 
our backs to the water. 

“That was a good job, and a safe pas- 
sage,” said I. 

“Fine,” answered Maurice, drawing his 
hands through the branches, which lay, 
as the top had fallen, on our side of the 
water. “It is a poplar,” he continued. 
“Isn’t it curious that there should be only 
one poplar in this whole forest?” Now 
the place where we were was not in 
reality a forest, but meadow land, over- 


The Start 27 

grown with trees, most of them quite 
young. 

“Perhaps some one planted it,” said I. 

“If that is so, we ought not to have 
cut it down,” replied my brother. 

“Necessity knows no law,” I rejoined 
gravely. “It was a matter of life and 
death.” 

Maurice burst out laughing. He had 
a trick of doing that at inopportune mo- 
ments. But seeing me color with vexa- 
tion he hastened to add, “Yes, we could 
not have crossed, unless we had done it.” 
He was a kind-hearted little fellow, my 
brother Maurice. We shouldered our 
burdens and began to walk on. 

“Are we going toward home now?” 
asked Maurice, after we had gone some 
distance. 

“I think so,” I replied. “We shall 
have to walk a long way though, before 
we get there.” 

“About the tree!” said Maurice. 


28 The Start 

“What shall we do, if we find it belongs 
to somebody?” 

“We shall not find that out. How can 
we?” 

“I don’t know,” said Maurice. 

We walked on in silence. The trees 
began to grow thicker. Far behind them, 
we perceived a house in the distance. It 
had several high chimneys and was built 
of stone. 

“That looks like an orchard,” said I. 

“It is an orchard,” rejoined Maurice. 
“I can see the apples, red, green, and yel- 
low. Isn’t it large? I wonder who lives 
in that great stone house?” 

“Shall we go nearer?” I asked. 

“Better not,” replied my brother, 
“They may have a dog there.” 

As we stood a moment, uncertain what 
to do, we heard a noise in the bushes. 
We both turned; before us stood an old 
woman in a dark blue blouse and very 
short skirt, beneath which could be seen 


The Start 


29 


a pair of high rubber boots. She wore a 
black sunbonnet; from its depths a pair 
of deep, dark eyes looked out upon us, 
very fiercely, we thought, very angrily. 
She had snow-white curling hair, coming 
down well over her forehead. She wore 
leather gauntlet gloves, and carried a long 
thick staff in her hand. 

“It is a witch !” whispered Maurice, 
stepping very close to me. 

A witch! My heart bounded at the 
thought. Here was a real adventure, 
well worth while. And I did not feel in 
the least afraid. I had said my prayers 
that morning, and had a miraculous medal 
around my neck on a silver chain. So 
had Maurice. No witch that ever 
breathed — if there were such things — 
could hurt us, protected as we were by 
the dear, immaculate Mother. 

“Hello,” exclaimed the old woman, in 
a masculine but not unpleasing voice. 
And as she spoke, the fierce look seemed 


30 


The Start 


to die out of her eyes — if it had ever been 
there — and they twinkled pleasantly. 
‘‘Hello !” she repeated, as we did not an- 
swer, and then I found courage to reply, 

“Good morning, madam!” One could 
not have said “Hello!” to a white-haired 
old woman, even though it had been her 
own form of greeting. 

“I see you have some politeness,” she 
rejoined. “Even though you are a 
couple of savages.” 

“Savages!” I rejoined, though not at 
all resentfully, for that day we had 
started out with the intention of playing 
either the pioneer or gipsy or barbarian 
role, as occasion offered. 

“Yes, savages,” she replied. “Wasn’t it 
you two who cut down that poplar tree 
by the stream behind there?” 

“Yes, madam, we did,” I rejoined, be- 
ginning to tremble. “Did it belong to 
you?” 

“It belongs to the owner of this place,” 


The Start 


31 


she rejoined. “I was down yonder look- 
ing after the osiers, and heard the blows 
of your hatchets. When I followed them 
up, you were gone, and the mischief 
done.” 

“We are very sorry,” said I. Maurice 
was speechless. “You see, madam, we did 
not think till afterward that it belonged 
to anybody, or we would not have done 
it. And yet I don’t see how we could 
have helped it.” 

“Why?” inquired the “witch,” her eyes 
still kindly. 

“We had to get across.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Home!” 

“Where is your home?” 

I looked around me. “Over yonder,” 
I replied. “At least I think so.” 

“You think so! Don’t you know?” 

“I am not sure. We came out very 
early this morning — the sun was over 
there, and now I can’t exactly say where 


32 The Start 

it ought to be — that is — what direction we 
ought to take.” 

“Why did you come? Where were you 
going?” 

“We were having an adventure. We 
were pioneers — or ” 

“Oh! I understand. And now, after 
leaving destruction in your path, as many 
pioneers and savages do, you are tired of 
your adventure and want to go home. Is 
that it?” 

“We did not intend to stay very long,” 
ventured Maurice, the first time he had 
spoken. “We made a bridge of the 
tree.” 

“Oh! I see. A mistake, also. You 
should have brought a compass. 
Pioneers never travel without one, if they 
can get it. I feel certain you are go- 
ing the wrong way, for I think I recog- 
nize in this smaller boy a resemblance to 
Mr. Henry Santley.” 

“He is my father,” said Maurice. 


The Start 33 

“You are brothers ?” asked the “witch” 
turning to me. 

“Yes, madam,” I replied. 

“Does he allow you to cut down your 
neighbors’ trees?” 

“He would not have allowed it, if he 
had known,” I said. “And we would not 
have done it, if we had thought.” 

“Yes, I understand,” replied the old 
woman, taking off her bonnet and begin- 
ning to fan herself with it, after she had 
run her fingers through her hair, which 
made it stand up all over her head, like 
a silver halo. Then leaning both hands 
on her staff, exactly like the pictures of 
old witches one sees in books, she asked, 
“Do you know why that poplar was 
planted there?” 

“No,” we both replied, in very subdued 
voices. 

“To mark the apex of a triangular lot 
about which there is a lawsuit.” 

“We can replace it, madam,” I said. 


34 


The Start 


“We will ask father to get one, and have 
it planted in the very spot.” 

“I am glad you are so well disposed,” 
said the old woman. “Go home now, tell 
your father about it, and if he will permit 
you, come back this afternoon or to- 
morrow. We will see about it then.” 

“Shall we bring a poplar with us?” 

“Oh, no, this is not the time for plant- 
ing poplars.” 

“Very well, madam,” I said. “And 
will you tell the owner of the tree that we 
are sorry?” 

“I shall tell her.” 

“Are you — are you — her gardener?” 

“Her head-gardener.” 

“You were good not to scold us,” said 
Maurice. 

The old woman laughed merrily and 
pinched him on the cheeks. 

“Did you take me for a witch?” she 
said. “I do look like one, don’t I?” 

We were both crimson with confusion. 


The Start 


35 


But she evidently did not mind, and put- 
ting on her bonnet she said, “Go back the 
way you came; cross your bridge, and get 
home as fast as you can. You were go- 
ing the wrong way. And remember, 
boys, you must come back. I depend on 
your honor.” 

“Well be sure to, if father will let us,” 
said I. 

Suddenly as she had come, the queer 
old woman disappeared through the 
bushes, and we began to retrace our steps. 


CHAPTER III 


THE RETURN* 

O ur return was not as joyful as the 
departure had been. We were 
greatly fatigued, our steps lagged, and 
our burdens felt very heavy. We were 
greeted by Frances with grave re- 
proaches, as it was after three o'clock. 

“What have ye got with ye?” she in- 
quired. “What in the name of all that is 
great are ye carrying? Did ye take all 
that truck along? Old hatchets and 
clubs and slung-shots! Yes, slung-shots. 
And what did ye mean to do with all them 
curious things?” 

“Play pioneers — or Blackfoot Indians, 
or Robinson Crusoe,” said I. “It's lots 
of fun. We were explorers.” 

“And right tired ye look for it. See 

36 


The Return 


37 


here, boys. I’ve been in a terrible fright 
about ye. If ye’ll promise me never, 
never, to go off that way again — or ask 
leave to do it, I’ll not say a word to the 
master about it. But unless ye promise 
I’ll ” 

“Oh, we are going to tell papa all about 
it, Frances,” I rejoined. “Then he can 
scold us if he likes. But the father of 
the Prodigal Son didn’t say a cross word 
to him, after he had been gone years and 
years and had done all sorts of dreadful 
things, and I’m sure our father will be as 
kind as he was.” 

“If you’re not the queerest boy, Mar- 
tin,” said Frances, her ill humor fast van- 
ishing. “I’m afraid he will say more 
than a word to ye, though.” 

Maurice looked at me. He was think- 
ing of the tree. We were so tired after 
our long tramp that we went to bed quite 
early. But we had a good bath and an 
excellent dinner first; one would have 


38 


The Return 


thought we had been absent days instead 
of hours, so glad were the servants to see 
us. 

Father and mother returned next 
morning, a little sooner than we had ex- 
pected them. We felt that it behooved 
us to tell our story as soon as possible ; the 
funny little old woman would probably 
be wondering if we were going to keep 
our promise. But some one came to see 
father in the morning, and some one else 
after luncheon, so that it was quite three 
o’clock when Maurice and I waylaid him 
in the garden. 

“Father,” said I. “We have some- 
thing to tell you.” 

“What is it?” he inquired. “Have you 
been finding some more birds’ eggs.” 

“No,” I replied. “But yesterday after 
you had gone, Maurice and I went ex- 
ploring and ” 

“Where did you go?” 

“Over yonder,” pointing to the woods. 


The Return 39 

“You had asked permission of your 
mother?” 

“No, we told Frances.” 

“You told Frances.” 

“Yes. Was it wrong?” 

“I see no reason why you should not 
go beyond the grounds occasionally, 
though your mother does not like it. 
She is afraid of tramps. But you should 
always ask permission.” 

“After this we will,” I replied humbly. 
“But that isn’t all, father. We walked 
and walked, and came to a place where 
the stream was so wide we couldn’t get 
across. So we cut down a little tree, and 
made a bridge.” 

“Cut down a little tree! How did you 
do it?” 

“With our hatchets.” 

My father laughed. “It must have 
been a frightful job.” 

“It was. But it was a very thin tree, 
papa.” 


40 


The Return 


“And when you had hacked it down 
what did you do?” 

“It fell straight across, so we did not 
have the trouble of moving it, and we 
crawled over on our hands and knees.” 

“Was the water deep?” 

“Not very.” 

“Why didn’t you wade over?” 

“We didn’t want to get wet. And 
there were little holes in the mud; we 
thought there might have been water 
snakes in them.” 

“Just so. And you got over without 
accident?” 

“Yes. But after a while we remem- 
bered that it was a young poplar, and the 
only one of the kind near. We began 
to think maybe some one had planted it, 
and just as we were talking about it a tiny 
old woman stepped from behind the 
bushes. At first we thought she was a 
witch.” 

“A witch!” exclaimed my father. 


The Return 41 

4 ‘Martin, you are too old to believe in 
witches.” 

“It is fun though,” I said. 

“What did she do?” 

“She told us the tree had been planted 
there by the owner of the place to mark 
— mark — what did she say, Maurice?” I 
inquired, turning to my brother. 

“To mark the apex of a lawsuit,” an- 
swered Maurice innocently. 

My father laughed loudly. “That is 
good,” he said. “That is very good.” 

“We offered to plant another tree,” I 
resumed. “But she said this was not the 
time for planting trees.” 

“Was she angry?” 

“Not very. Not at all — at the end. 
But she said we were to tell you, and 
promise to come back yesterday or to- 
day, and let her know what you said. 
She knew you, because she thought 
Maurice looked like you.” 

“Did she tell you her name?” 


42 


The Return 


“No, she said she was the head-gar- 
dener.” 

“How did she look?” 

“Like a witch,” said Maurice. “But 
not a cross or ugly one, father.” 

“Like a good, kind witch, eh?” 

“Yes, she had a short skirt and high 
rubber boots, and a funny bonnet. 
When she took it off her hair stood up 
all over her head in short, white curls. 
And she had a thick stick, longer than 
herself.” 

“I think I know her,” remarked my 
father dryly. “I have business over there 
myself to-day. Shall we go together?” 

“It is a long walk,” said Maurice. He 
was not very anxious to set out, I fancy. 

“We can take the carriage and go 
around by the road,” said father. “And 
mother shall go with us.” 

It was a right merry party that set out 
about four or half past, with John driv- 


The Return 


43 


ing. The front of the big stone house 
was grim and gray, but the ivy that cov- 
ered it beautified its somberness. The 
gardens were lovely; a fountain played 
in their midst. 

“Shall we ask for the old woman?” 
whispered Maurice to mother. 

“We shall probably see her later,” she 
replied. “Papa will get out first, leav- 
ing us in the carriage. He has some busi- 
ness to transact with the mistress of the 
house, Mrs. Yandeling. After that we 
shall probably meet her also, and learn 
what reparation we can make for the fell- 
ing of the tree.” 

Father left us, and was gone some time. 
He returned at last, and said, “Mrs. Yan- 
deling wished to see us all.” We 
alighted, and there, at the head of the 
broad stone steps, dressed in gray satin, 
even to her dainty slippers, stood a tiny 
old lady. A lace cap, with long lappets 


44 


The Return 


perched on top of her thick, snow-white 
curls, stood all around her head like a 
silver halo. 

She extended both hands to greet us, 
enjoying our wonderment and confusion 
to the utmost. 

“The witch has been expecting you, 
boys,” she exclaimed, her deep, dark eyes 
dancing with amusement. “She has 
changed her garb a little, but she is still 
the same old witch you met yesterday 
morning.” 

But we were soon friends. Mrs. Van- 
deling insisted on our remaining for tea, 
which was served on the broad piazza, and 
Maurice and I had a fine run through the 
gardens. During our visit, we learned 
that father, who was a lawyer, had been 
conducting a case against our neighbor 
for a city client, who, however, had lost 
it. It was about the boundary line which 
Mrs. Vandeling had mentioned to us. 
Of course, she was rejoiced at the result, 


The Return 


45 


and made us all feel happy. When we 
were leaving, she said, 

“Now, boys, we will consider the pop- 
lar incident closed, except that we shall 
leave the tree lying where it is — across 
the stream, and you can use it as a bridge 
whenever you come, by the short cut, to 
see me. I am a lonely old woman. My 
neighbors for the most part are too much 
taken up with their own affairs to think 
about me. But I am very fond of chil- 
dren, especially boys; probably because 
I never had any of my own. My girls 
are married, and live far, far, from me, 
across the ocean. Now, if you will please 
to consider yourselves my grandsons I 
shall be delighted to see you whenever you 
may wish to pay me a visit. You can 
imagine me all sorts of things in these 
wide gardens; you can fancy yourselves 
Indians, Chinese, Turks, anything you 
like. You may make all the noise you 
please, and I know, from the incident of 


46 


The Return 


the poplar tree, that you will do very lit- 
tle mischief. In the house I have all sorts 
of curious things from every land under 
the sun, which I shall be glad to show you. 
I have been a great traveler, and noth- 
ing could give me more pleasure than to 
tell you of things and people and places 
I have seen. Now, have I offered you 
sufficient inducement to become friendly 
neighbors ?” 

We thought so, indeed, and said so. 
And Maurice added in his coaxing little 
voice, “Won’t you let us plant another 
poplar there by the stream? We should 
like to, shouldn’t we, Martin?” 

“Bless your heart, if you wish to, do 
it,” replied the kind old lady, pinching the 
boy’s cheeks once more, a habit of hers 
with which he was soon to grow familiar. 

For five years the pleasant friendship 
continued. There was no need to plant 
another poplar, the roots of the first had 
not been disturbed, and new shoots made 


The Return 


47 


their appearance in the following spring. 
After a year’s time it had grown quite 
tall, and put forth a vigorous foliage. 
At the end of the second a pair of black- 
birds built themselves a nest in the 
branches. When the third year was well 
advanced, we often found Mrs. Vandeling 
waiting for us under the shade, her knit- 
ting in her hand. This, of course, was 
only in the vacations, which we passed in 
our country home. During the winter 
and spring we were at school. When we 
were returning to the city, at the close of 
the fourth vacation, the bridge was cov- 
ered with moss and vines, which Mrs. 
Vandeling had planted on the banks of 
the stream. The gardener had made a 
couple of hand-rails; we no longer went 
across on all fours. 

But when the fifth summer came, 
though the blackbirds still sang in the 
thicket nearby, and the wild roses on the 
border of the stream mingled their per- 


48 


The Return 


fume with that of the climbing jessamine 
she had planted, our old friend no longer 
awaited our coming on the other side, 
welcoming hands extended. She had 
gone to walk in the heavenly gardens. 


CHAPTER IV 

MY FATHER’S ADVENTURE 

I t may have occurred to the reader by 
the circumstances related in the pre- 
ceding chapter that it would be a very 
difficult undertaking to cross a stream, on 
a young, narrow poplar trunk on hands 
and knees. That thought suggested it- 
self to father, who went walking with us 
in our newly discovered camping-grounds 
a few mornings after we had established 
ourselves in the friendship of our new and 
somewhat eccentric neighbor. This is 
what he said on the subject. 

“Boys,” he began, “I do not see how 
it was possible for you to go over the 
stream on that slender trunk, on all fours. 
It seems to me there was not width 
enough there for such a feat. It was a 
feat, indeed.” 


49 


50 My Father s Adventure 

“Well,” said I, after glancing at 
Maurice for an explanation, which I 
might have known he would not have of- 
fered to give — as I was generally spokes- 
man. “It was hard, father. First we 
had to stretch one hand very far forward, 
and drag one foot after us. It was the 
same with the other hand and foot. But 
it wasn’t very hard. We got across in 
two stretchings.” 

Father laughed. “But why did you do 
it?” he inquired. 

“We thought it was more like being 
in ambush,” said I. “We wanted to 
crouch.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed father. “That was 
it! If you wanted to crouch, I suppose 
there is no fault to be found with the mo- 
tive. But you might have walked across 
on tiptoe, balancing yourselves with long 
poles which you could have cut from 
young trees in the neighborhood. That 
would have been interesting, wouldn’t it?” 


51 


My Father s Adventure 

“Oh, yes,” I rejoined, thoughtfully. 
“That would have been like the Permian 
Indians, wouldn’t it? But lately we have 
been playing Iroquois and Comanche.” 

“Ah! I see,” rejoined my father. 
“That explains it.” 

“Now, when I was a boy I would have 
taken off my shoes and stockings, rolled 
up my trousers, and waded across,” he 
continued. 

“But mother won’t let us do that,” re- 
plied Maurice. “She thinks we will take 
cold.” 

“I know it,” rejoined father, “and no 
doubt she is right. Mother generally is. 
And there’s another thing, boys. This 
stream gets wider in the rainy season, and 
perhaps deeper. If you should want to 
cross then, you could not wade. Now I 
propose to strengthen the little bridge 
with the addition of some willow saplings 
which we can bind together — fasten on 
either side of the main trunk lengthwise 


52 My Father's Adventure 

and then across — and so strengthen it. 
What do you say?” 

Of course we fell in with the plan, and 
a busy and pleasant morning was spent 
in completing the bridge and making it 
easy for mother to pass over if she should 
ever want to walk to our new friend’s 
house, who later had a railing put on 
either side, as mentioned in the previous 
chapter. 

“Boys,” said father, as we were work- 
ing, running to and fro with the withes 
which he skilfully bound together, “I 
have been reflecting very seriously on 
your late adventure. Mother and I have 
had some conversation on the subject. 
We were very sorry, as well as surprised, 
to learn that you had taken advantage of 
our absence to leave our own grounds. 
It was not what we expected of you. 
But I am willing to give you the benefit of 
the doubt, and accept your explanation, 
if it be satisfactory. First, tell me, Mar- 


53 


My Father s Adventure 

tin, was it a sudden whim of yours? Did 
you think of it only after we had gone?” 

“No, father,” 1 replied at once, though 
in some embarrassment. “We talked of 
it before.” 

“And why did you not say something 
of it to us? Why not have asked permis- 

sion?” 

“We were afraid you might not allow 
us to go,” said Maurice, promptly. 

“So you discussed it then, in that way?” 

“No, father, we did not say a single 
word about that,” said I — “but, but ” 

“We just thought in our minds you 
would not be willing to let us go.” 

“Quite so. That is what is called a 
tacit understanding. It shows the depth 
of the conspiracy.” 

“Conspiracy!” I exclaimed. “It 
wasn’t anything like that, father.” 

“Yes, that is what it may be called — a 
mild conspiracy but reprehensible all the 
same. However, boys will be boys, and 


54 My Father s Adventure 

I have never believed that mine were 
angels. But I have one thing to say. 
Never deceive your parents. Being 
frank and outspoken may sometimes in- 
terfere with your plans, but it pays in 
the long run, for body and soul. When- 
ever you are in doubt be sure to ask ad- 
vice and put concealment far behind you. 
You may not always be permitted to do 
what you wish, but you must take it for 
granted that your parents are concerned 
only for your good, though it may some- 
times interfere with your amusement. 
Now promise, both of you, that you will 
be perfectly open and above board in all 
your undertakings.” 

We promised. Father then continued: 
“Mother and I have concluded that you 
are large enough now to have a little more 
liberty than you have had up to this time ; 
that you may go outside of the grounds 
now and then, on your exploring expedi- 
tions, but not without permission. There 


55 


My Father s Adventure 

is a good deal of truth in the saying that 
if you give a goat a long tether he will 
be satisfied with a short one. Do 
you know what that means?” 

“That we will not be so anxious to go 
so far when we know we may, if we want 
to,” said Maurice. 

“Well said,” laughed father, patting 
him on the shoulder. 

“I don’t think that will make any dif- 
ference with us,” I said. “I’m sure we 
shall be always going somewhere if we 
may.” 

“Don’t be too eager,” said father. 
“He that goes too far afield often re- 
grets it. You inherit your love of ad- 
venture from me. When I was a boy I 
was always in search of something new, 
strange, and wonderful, and once, in par- 
ticular, I came to grief.” 

“Were you ever disobedient, father?” 
asked Maurice. 

“I am afraid so,” was the reply. 


56 My Father s Adventure 

“That is, occasionally. Once I ran away. 
What do you think of that?” 

“You ran away!” we both exclaimed. 

“Yes. Shall I tell you about it?” 

“Oh, do.” 

“Very well, I will. Our work is about 
finished now for this morning. I will 
tell you about it as we go home.” One 
on either hand we pressed close to his side, 
and he began: 

“You already know that during the 
absence of my father and mother in 
Europe I lived with my grandfather and 
grandmother for a year. They were very 
kind, but very strict with me, fearing to 
allow me to do anything of which my par- 
ents might not approve. They lived on 
a farm, and I had ample freedom to run 
where I chose, but within certain limits, 
of course. A circus came to our neigh- 
borhood; my grandfather had expected to 
take me, but he was not well the day it 
arrived. My grandmother was an in- 


57 


My Father's Adventure 

valid, and never left the house. Some 
older boys would have taken me, but I 
was not permitted to go with them. I 
begged and pleaded, but my grandfather 
was inexorable and finally spoke to me 
in a very angry tone. It was the first 
time; he had a hot temper when roused, 
and I had inherited it. I answered him 
with some warmth, and he slapped me 
quite hard. I was furious, seeing only 
my own side of the case; and a feeling of 
longing and loneliness swept over me. I 
wanted my father and mother. Tears 
streamed from my eyes. Clenching my 
fists, I ran out of the house and down the 
road as fast as my legs could carry me.” 

“Where did you mean to go?” asked 
Maurice. 

“I did not know. Anywhere away 
from Willow Farm. Many plans surged 
through my excited brain. I would be a 
gipsy — I had seen some in the vicinity a 
few days previous. I would go west and 


58 My Father's Adventure 

become a cowboy, but finally I resolved 
to get to New York, seek some vessel 
about to sail for Europe, and after serv- 
ing as cabin boy, and being shipw T recked, 
I would join my parents in Europe.” 

“Would you have known where to find 
them, father?” asked the ever-practical 
Maurice. 

“Not at all; but that added a new ele- 
ment of zest to the situation. I knew 
their post-office address. It was Paris; 
and if they were not there when I arrived 
I could follow them all over until I found 
them. I rather enjoyed the prospect, 
and as it began to shape itself in my mind 
it seemed very feasible. By the time I 
had arrived at the decision regarding my 
European trip I felt very tired, and 
thought I would rest in a grove of trees 
that were ahead of me. Some blackberry 
bushes on the roadside first engaged my 
attention, however, for I was getting hun- 
gry. I gathered a quantity in my straw 


59 


My Father s Adventure 

hat, and was about to climb the fence when 
I heard a loud ‘Hello !’ behind me. I 
turned and saw a wagon-load of boys en 
route, I knew, to the circus. 5 ’ 

“ ‘Where are you going, Fred ? 5 cried 
one of them. 

“ ‘Just taking a walk , 5 I rejoined. 

“ ‘Not going to the circus ? 5 

“ ‘No , 5 I replied, ‘Grandfather is sick . 5 

“ ‘Come with us ! 5 

“For a moment I hesitated, but I had 
been too well-trained to commit what 
seemed such a cold-blooded act of disobedi- 
ence, as that would have been, though I 
was contemplating a far greater one. 

“ ‘No, I can’t , 5 I shouted back, already 
on the other side of the fence. But when 
they had gone I threw myself on the 
ground and cried bitterly. After the fit 
had passed I ate the blackberries and lay 
down again. I had resolved to sleep dur- 
ing the day, so as not to be discovered, and 
to travel by night. When I awoke, the 


60 My Father s Adventure 

moonlight was filtering through the thick 
foliage. All the sounds of night per- 
vaded the place. I shivered with cold; 
having eaten nothing but blackberries 
since morning I felt very hungry. I did 
not know what time of night it was, but it 
seemed very late to me. At first I did not 
dare to move, but after a while, beginning 
to feel that it could not be as lonely on 
the road as it was in the woods, I climbed 
over the fence once more. For a long 
time I sat on the bank above the roadside 
with my head in my hands. It ached 
badly. I would have given a great deal 
to be lying in my comfortable bed at Wil- 
low Farm; all my anger against my good 
grandfather had vanished. I remembered 
only his kindness, knew that he must be in 
great trouble on my account, and won- 
dered whether it might not kill my sick, 
feeble grandmother to know that I had 
disappeared. Cowboys and cabin-boys 
were no longer objects of envy. The 


61 


My Father's Adventure 

pleasures of prospective shipwreck had all 
vanished.” 

“Why didn’t you go home, then?” I in- 
quired. “Were you afraid?” 

“Yes, but not in the way you mean, per- 
haps,” said father. “I was not fearful 
that my grandfather would scold or punish 
me, but I dreaded the dark — the lonely 
night. The moon was setting, owls and 
nightbirds were screeching in the trees, a 
mocking-bird warbling in the distance. 
I did not know whom or what I might 
meet on the road. I could not bear to 
start.” 

“How old were you, father?” I asked. 

“About eleven, and a boy who, although 
he had dreamed adventures, had never had 
any. After some time I resolved to re- 
main where I was until morning, and was 
about to re-climb the fence and lie down 
under the trees again when I heard the 
rumbling of wheels, and the shouts of 
many joyful young voices. I went down 


62 My Father s Adventure 

the bank and stood in the road. In a few 
moments they appeared — the boys return- 
ing from the circus.” 

“ ‘Why, it’s little Mayhew !’ cried a 
young man who had worked for my 
grandfather. ‘What are you doing 
here?’ 

“ ‘I fell asleep,’ I replied. 

“ ‘The folks will be pretty near out of 
their heads,’ he went on. ‘Come, jump in, 
and we’ll take you home.’ 

“I lost no time in doing so. The crowd 
did not pay much attention to me; they 
were full of the circus. But it had lost 
all its charms for me; I thought only of 
the foolishness and ingratitude of my con- 
duct, of my grandfather and grand- 
mother. We were soon at the farmhouse. 
Lights could be seen burning in all the 
windows. I knew the cause. The wagon 
stopped. I jumped down and made my 
way to the door as quickly as I could. It 
stood wide open. My grandfather was 


63 


My Father's Adventure 

lying on a settee in the hall. His face 
was pale, but he was not asleep. 

“ ‘Grandfather!’ I said timidly. He 
arose quickly. ‘Thank God, my boy!’ he 
cried. ‘Where have you been?’ 

“I told him. 

“ ‘Peter and John and the men from 
Scott’s are out looking for you,’ he said. 
‘Come to grandma; she will be able to 
sleep now. You have given everybody a 
bad day, Charlie.’ 

“ ‘I will never do it again,’ I replied, 
between my sobs. T lost my temper, 
and ’ 

“ ‘So did I,’ said my grandfather. ‘We 
won’t do so any more, boy ; it is a silly and 
shameful thing to get angry.’ 

“After that there was no more trouble. 
Grandfather and I understood each other 
perfectly, and I am glad to say I never 
deceived him.” 


CHAPTER V 


THE HOUSE WITH THE GOLDEN WINDOWS 

I t was in the second year of our ac- 
quaintance with the lady of the poplar 
tree that a curious adventure befell us. 
Father had bought a bicycle for each of 
us, and we had become very familiar with 
the roads in the vicinity. By this time 
mother, too, had begun to see that we were 
to be trusted and our expeditions often 
occupied the entire day. Lately we had 
occasionally diverged from our usual 
route, as we had discovered several blind 
lanes seeming to lead nowhere and appar- 
ently not much traveled. Father ex- 
plained this to us by telling us that a great 
deal of the property in the neighborhood 
had been fenced in by new owners, who 
did not wish to give the public the right 
of way which they had formerly enjoyed. 


The House with Golden Windows 65 


“We don’t care,” said Maurice. “We 
don’t want to get into anybody’s prop- 
erty. But it’s awfully nice to wheel the 
whole length of the lane and then turn 
round again. The ground is so firm 
there.” 

“I suppose you often imagine you are 
going to discover something or meet with 
a thrilling adventure,” said mother. “It 
must be interesting.” 

“Perhaps,” I rejoined. “And some 
day we may.” 

And one day we did. It came about in 
this way. 

We had often seen at a distance, in our 
rides, the roof of a broad, low house, peep- 
ing through the trees. Sometimes we lost 
it altogether, while again we would seem 
to be very close. Yet we never passed it. 
We were perplexed at this, not under- 
standing how a house could have been 
built in the midst of green fields or woods, 
without any apparent approach. 


66 The House with Golden Windows 


Time and again as we rode homeward 
toward sunset, its windows, always closed, 
reflected the sunlight in full blaze, so that 
we had come to call it “The House with 
the Golden Windows.” Try whatever 
road we passed, it stared us full in the 
face, and always appeared to be about the 
same distance from us. 

“Let’s ask mother if she knows who 
lives there,” said Maurice, one evening as 
the “Golden Windows” flashed across our 
sight. 

“Mother wouldn’t know,” I replied. 
“But father might.” 

“I think it would be fun to go over and 
see for ourselves,” said Maurice. “I 
don’t believe anybody lives there. Maybe 
it’s haunted.” 

“That’s a capital idea,” I rejoined. “I 
don’t believe there are any haunted houses 
though, do you?” 

Maurice shrugged his shoulders. 

“Some houses are very queer,” he said. 


The House with Golden Windows 67 

“You know we’ve read lots of things 
about strange happenings in houses.” 

“Yes,” I answered. “Rats are usually 
the cause. But I’d like to find out.” 

“How can we get at the place?” asked 
Maurice. 

“Let’s try to-morrow. We can start 
early,” said I. 

Accordingly, the next afternoon as we 
were setting out I informed mother that 
we were going to try to reach the mysteri- 
ous house. At first she demurred, but 
finally consented. Father was not at 
home. She was afraid we might get lost, 
but we assured her that was impossible. 
Fortune seemed to favor us. Not far 
from the house a long lane led to a thick 
clump of trees, from which, when reached, 
we had always turned back. 

“Let’s have a spin up the lane,” said 
Maurice, as we started. 

“All right,” I replied. “And then we’ll 
go back along the road, leave our bicycles 


68 The House with Golden Windows 


near the fence when we get opposite the 
house, and climb over. We can walk the 
rest of the way. I don’t care how many 
fences I climb, do you?” 

“No,” he answered cheerily. “The 
pioneers and Indians had to climb a lot, 
I imagine.” 

I was sorry to disillusion him, but felt 
it my duty to do so. “You forget,” I 
said, a little cautiously, wishing to spare 
his feelings. “You forget, Maurice, that 
pioneers made the fences. Before they 
came, there were none.” 

“Sure enough,” he replied. “But that 
need not make any difference to us, only 
it’s a little harder than it was for them. 
They had a clear way through the jungle.” 

When we arrived at the clump of trees, 
we dismounted for the first time in that 
immediate locality. 

“Let’s peep through. Maybe there’s a 
fence behind them.” 

We did so, but instead of a fence we dis- 


The House with Golden Windows 69 

covered, to our great joy, a continuation 
of the lane, which turned at an abrupt 
angle beyond the dense foliage. 

“Look here,” I said, “we’re in good 
luck. I bet you this goes directly to ‘The 
House with the Golden Windows.’ ” 

And so it proved. We were there in a 
very few moments. And what a forlorn, 
neglected place it was. But we reveled 
in it. It was the abandoned homestead — 
the mysterious dwelling — the haunted 
house of our books and imaginings. 
There was a low stone wall about the gar- 
den over which some kind of yellow flow- 
ering moss ran riot. The paths were 
overgrown, and all kinds of brightly col- 
ored annuals were blooming there. But 
they were choked throughout by weeds 
that overtopped them in many places, 
straggling out along the graveled paths, 
and almost up to the very door. We 
roamed around the garden for a while, 
gradually nearing the house as we lin- 


70 The House with Golden Windows 

gered, now under a broad oak encircled 
by a comfortable rustic seat, now close to 
the wellhouse with its old-fashioned sweep, 
the water gleaming darkly and deep be- 
low. 

“The door is open!” whispered Maurice 
in a voice of surprise, as we approached 
the house. “Can any one be living here?” 

“No,” I rejoined. “It is as silent as a 
grave. I have not heard a sound, have 
you?” 

“No,” Maurice answered. “Yet peo- 
ple may be in the house. Perhaps they 
are asleep.” 

“In broad daylight?” I cried. “I don’t 
believe it. This door has been open for 
years, most likely.” 

“Are you afraid to go in?” asked my 
brother. 

“Afraid! No!” I replied. “Are 
you?” 

“Not a bit,” said he. 

I was afraid, however, and I fancy 


The House with Golden Windows 71 

Maurice was also. But we would not 
have confessed that weakness to each 
other. We stood for a moment on the 
doorstep, looking up at the windows, over 
which spiders had woven thick webs, in- 
side and out. 

“The window panes would not be like 
that if people were living here,” I said. 

“No,” replied Maurice, and the next 
instant, darting back, he continued in a 
low voice: “Martin, I saw a man’s face 
up there, just then.” 

“Up where?” I inquired. 

“At the farthest window.” 

“It can’t be. You’re frightened,” I re- 
plied. 

“No, I’m not,” he answered stoutly, and 
set his foot upon the threshold, pushing 
the door wide open as he did so. 

I followed him. It was a low, square 
room, entirely destitute of furniture.. 
The floor was thick with dust. A broad 
mantel-shelf projected above the fireplace* 


72 The House with Golden Windows 

which was wide and deep. The walls were 
decorated with old-fashioned landscape 
paper, representing a cool green wood, 
with a running stream, over which a rustic 
bridge extended. Beneath it two figures, 
a man and a woman, sat, fishing in the 
brook. The blue sky above, just visible 
through the branches of tall, interlacing 
trees, made an attractive border. The 
paper on the ceiling was meant, I suppose, 
to portray an arbor; green leaves inter- 
twining seemed supported by a trellis- 
work of rustic design. We had never 
seen anything like it before ; it amazed and 
delighted us. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Maurice, at 
last. “It is like a panorama, isn’t it? I 
wonder if the other rooms are the same 
way?” 

“Let us go and see,” I rejoined, open- 
ing the door which led to the adjacent 
apartment. It must have once been a li- 
brary, for there were marks of shelves 


The House with Golden Windows 73 

upon the walls, which were papered a dark 
red, with gilt diamonds arranged in col- 
umns at regular intervals. As in the 
front room, the windows were large with 
wide seats, whereon one could have sat 
the whole day long dreaming through a 
fairy tale and looking upon the garden. 

Beyond this room was another. The 
paper represented Venetian scenes. As 
a large kitchen was next to it, we supposed 
this to have been the dining-room. A 
musty, dusty smell pervaded the whole 
house; I was beginning to feel sick and I 
said. 

“Let’s go out for a few moments before 
we go upstairs. I want a breath of fresh 
air, don’t you?” 

We retraced our steps and, passing 
through the open door, sat down upon the 
broad platform of the piazza, our backs 
against the wall. 

“Isn’t it still?” said Maurice. “Do you 
want to go in again?” 


7 4 The House with Golden Windows 

“Yes,” I replied. “We haven’t been 
upstairs yet.” 

“Why,” said Maurice, looking around 
him, “there are no stairs!” 

“There must be,” I replied. “There is 
a second story.” 

“But I didn’t see any stairs.” 

“Neither did I,” rejoined my brother. 
“Come, let’s look for them.” 

Stimulated by curiosity we went inside 
once more. There was no visible stair- 
case. There seemed to be several closets 
in the dining-room. Opening these one 
by one, we came at last upon a narrow 
stairway built between the walls of the 
kitchen and dining-room. We looked up 
doubtfully, neither anxious to take the 
first step. Finally I put my foot upon 
the landing. 

“There is some one up there,” said 
Maurice. “I hear footsteps.” 

I drew back, though I had heard noth- 
ing. 


The House with Golden Windows 75 

“Aren’t you afraid?” asked Maurice in 
an awed voice. 

“Whether I am or not,” I replied, sud- 
denly feeling myself actuated by a senti- 
ment of filial duty and obedience, “I 
don’t believe father or mother would like 
us to go up there. Let’s go home, and 
maybe father will come back with us to- 
morrow.” 

“That’s what I think,” said Maurice, 
heaving a sigh of relief. 

We closed the door, and went back 
through the two intervening rooms to the 
front. 

“Look!” said Maurice, pointing to the 
floor. “There are marks of shoe prints in 
the dust.” 

“They are ours,” said I. 

“Some of them, not all,” rejoined my 
observant little brother. “That is a man’s 
foot. And see, on the mantel-piece — the 
five fingers of a hand!” 

“Yes, so it is,” I answered. “But many 


76 The House with Golden Windows 

persons — any one might come in here, just 
as we did.” 

“I left my cap back there,” said Mau- 
rice. “I’m going to get it, and then we’ll 
scoot homeward. This is a queer place.” 

The last sentence, uttered in a tragic 
tone, made me shiver. I was ready to 
“scoot” at any moment. Indeed I would 
have preferred to have let my brother find 
his cap without my assistance had not loy- 
alty upheld me. Shoulder to shoulder we 
returned to the room of the staircase, our 
footsteps resounding loudly through the 
empty house. Maurice found his cap, 
and we turned to go. At that moment, 
some one began to walk overhead ; then we 
heard the sound of shuffling feet upon the 
stairs. We looked at each other, unable 
to move, though we longed to go. Nearer 
and nearer came the footsteps — now they 
were at the door. It opened slowly, 
swung backward, and we found ourselves 
face to face with a very old man. At 


The House with Golden Windows 77 


least so he seemed to us at that moment, 
for the hair that hung almost to his shoul- 
ders and the beard that swept his bosom 
were straggling, unkempt, and white as 
snow. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE STRANGE OLD MAN 

e were not so greatly frightened 



V V after all. He smiled kindly upon 
us, and seemed shy, I thought, noticing at 
the same time his eyes were brown and 
very bright, and that about the jaws his 
face looked very much like that of Jim, 
our hired man, when he had been long un- 
shaven. It even seemed to me that the 
old man had something of apprehension 
in his glance. 

“Well, boys,” he said, “what are you 
doing here?” 

“We just came in,” I answered. “We 
have been wanting to explore this place 
for a long time, but we didn’t know how to 
get at it. To-day we found a way.” 

“As I did, perhaps,” he said, advancing 


78 


The Strange Old Man 79 

into the room. “Why did you want to 
come here at all?” 

“We just wanted to find out what the 
place was like,” said Maurice. “It has 
been vacant a long time, I think. No- 
body seems to know who it belongs to.” 

“It belongs to me,” said the old man, 
seating himself on one of the broad win- 
dow sills, and motioning us to do the same. 
I accepted the silent invitation and took 
a place beside him, but Maurice went over 
to the opposite window. 

“Are you coming to live here?” asked 
my brother. 

“I am living here now,” was the reply. 

My brother looked around. 

“You are thinking the place is very 
poorly furnished, no doubt,” said the old 
man. 

Maurice laughed. “It looks like that,” 
he said. 

“There is some furniture upstairs,” said 
the stranger. “All I need at present. 


80 


The Strange Old Man 

But I am a little short of groceries, and 
not being well I am unable to get out for 
more. And I’d be very glad to see an 
occasional newspaper.” 

“Would you like us to bring you the 
newspaper?” I asked. “We get it every 
day.” 

“Yes, I would,” he rejoined. “And 
now about the supplies?” 

“You mean groceries?” I responded. 

“Yes; some tea and bread, and a little 
butter — and — perhaps some cooked ham.” 

“You’d have to send to town,” said 
Maurice. 

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” was the re- 
joinder. “Not by any means. You see, 
boys, when I came here, I thought of stay- 
ing only a night or two, and I had plenty 
of provisions for that. But I found this 
place so healthful and secluded that I 
thought I would remain a while longer. 
I need seclusion at present, for my health. 
But I couldn’t possibly send to town for 


The Strange Old Man 81 

anything to eat. I couldn’t possibly do 
it.” 

Silence ensued; neither Maurice nor I 
knew what to say. 

“Do you live close by?” the old man in- 
quired presently. 

“About a mile, perhaps,” I replied. 

“Couldn’t you get something from your 
house? I would pay for it, of course.” 

“Father wouldn’t take any money,” I 
said. “But I am sure he would be glad 
to let you have some provisions.” 

“Suppose you don’t say anything about 
it to your father,” continued the stranger. 
“He might be coming over to call on me, 
and in my condition I can’t bear company. 
Or he might not let you return. Very 
likely he would think it was some old 
tramp. Couldn’t you smuggle a little 
food and tell him after I’m gone?” 

“I don’t think we could,” answered 
Maurice promptly. “Father is good — 
he would be glad to oblige you, but we 


82 The Strange Old Man 

never have any secrets from him or 
mother.” 

“You don’t?” said the old man. “I’m 
glad to hear it. Always be so. Never 
conceal anything from your parents. I 
didn’t mean to give you bad advice, really 
I did not. But I can’t explain my case; 
I can’t explain it at all.” 

“I am sorry,” said I. “Would you 
mind if we sent Jim over with some bread 
and tea and meat?” 

“Who is Jim?” 

“Our hired man.” 

The old man reflected. “I’ll tell you 
what,” he said. “Let Jim come, but you 
boys come with him and leave the things 
at the end of the lane. I want to be sure 
that Jim does not get into the garden. 
And bring a late daily paper. Bring sev- 
eral if you have them. I’m lonely here, 
with nothing to read, and I’ve concluded 
to stay till it’s time for my steamer to 
sail.” 


83 


The Strange Old Man 

“Very well,” I replied. “We can do 
that, if father says we may. And I think 
he will.” 

Again the old man seemed to reflect. 

“Who is your father?” he inquired sud- 
denly, starting out of a reverie. 

“Charles Sylvan Mayhew,” I replied. 

“Charles Sylvan Mayhew!” repeated 
the stranger, springing with wonderful 
alacrity for such an old man to the middle 
of the floor. “The famous lawyer?” 

“I don’t know whether he is famous or 
not,” I said. “But he is a lawyer.” 

“Well, who ever heard the like!” ex- 
claimed the venerable personage, begin- 
ning to walk up and down. 

“Boys!” he cried, after he had made 
several turns. “You’d better go at once. 
And you needn’t come back. I have 
changed my mind. I think I’ll go to 
town myself to-morrow and fetch some 
furniture and a large supply of groceries. 
I shall enjoy being in the neighborhood of 


84 The Strange Old Man 

the great lawyer. I hope we shall be very 
good friends.’’ His lips twitched, his 
hands clasped each other nervously, and 
he began to beat a tattoo with one foot 
upon the floor. I really felt afraid of 
him. Touching Maurice on the arm, I 
edged toward the door. 

“I think we will go now,” I said. 

“Very well; good-by. Obey your par- 
ents, be kind to each other,” said the old 
man, once more preparing to ascend the 
stairs, and turning his back upon us. We 
left the room as quickly as we could, and 
hurried through the front door into the 
garden. We leaped over the stone wall 
into the lane, and mounted our bicycles. 
But we had not gone more than a few 
steps when Maurice said, 

“Martin, I have lost the little memo- 
randum book Mother gave me on my 
birthday. It must have fallen out of my 
pocket in that room. I’m going back to 
get it.” 


85 


The Strange Old Man 

“Well,” I replied, “I suppose it will be 
all right, but I’m afraid that man is half 
crazy. Wouldn’t it be better to let the 
memorandum book go?” 

“No, I don’t want to lose it,” said Mau- 
rice. “He won’t hurt me.” 

“Well then,” I rejoined, “I’ll go with 
you.” We faced about, and when we 
reached the garden wall I said, 

“Let us go around by the kitchen way. 
That door is wide open. He can’t see us 
so well then from the upstairs window.” 

“All right,” Maurice replied. “But 
first I’m going to look along this path.” 

We examined carefully but found noth- 
ing. There was a mantelpiece with a long 
mirror above it, opposite the library win- 
dows. Suddenly Maurice, who was ahead 
of me, crouched low beneath the windows. 
I followed his lead, knowing it meant 
something. 

“He mustn’t see us,” whispered my 
brother. “Keep still, and work your way 


86 The Strange Old Man 

back. He would kill us if he saw us 
now.” 

I did not say a word, but crept on hands 
and knees till we came again to the front 
of the house. The memorandum book lay 
on the walk near the steps. My brother’s 
face was white. He snatched the book 
and preceded me to the wall where we had 
left our bicycles, running all the way. 
When we had mounted again and had left 
the house behind us I asked, “What was 
it, Maurice? What was the matter?” 

We paused in the lane; Maurice opened 
his big eyes wide. 

“There is something wrong about that 
man,” he said. “He is not old, at all.” 

“Not old!” I exclaimed. “Didn’t you 
see his white hair and beard?” 

“Both false!” said Maurice. “As I 
passed the window I glanced in, not think- 
ing of anything. There he stood, just as 
young a man as father, or younger, with 
his hair cut close to his head. He was in 


The Strange Old Man 87 

his shirt-sleeves, holding a red wig in one 
hand and a red beard in the other. Mar- 
tin, he was going to put them on. He is 
an escaped criminal.” 

With many conjectures, we rode home- 
ward. Never had our wheels speeded 
faster. When we arrived, to our great 
chagrin, we found father and mother ab- 
sent, taking a drive. But we related our 
adventure to Jim, who enjoyed it, wishing 
he had been there, and announcing his in- 
tention of going over to see for himself as 
soon as he had done his chores. But we 
knew he would do nothing of the kind, as 
he was a great coward. We also told 
Frances, who straightway declared that 
she rejoiced at our safe return, but still 
more because she felt assured such an oc- 
currence would result in our being forbid- 
den to roam about the country, a privilege 
she had always considered unwise. 
Mary, the cook, was so terrified that she 
predicted we would all be murdered in our 


88 The Strange Old Man 

beds, and called Jim from his work in the 
garden to repair the bolt on her bedroom 
door, which had sprung. 

Father and mother were much inter- 
ested in what we had to tell them ; neither 
had any doubt that our strange acquaint- 
ance was a fugitive from justice. 

“Jim and I will go over there to-mor- 
row,” said father, “but we will not find 
him. Very likely it was the mention 
of my name that frightened him. He 
thought that I might know him, perhaps, 
or learn through you of his whereabouts. 
That discovery probably made him change 
his plans.” 

It was not until the next afternoon that 
father found time to go over to the old 
house. Jim suddenly developed a tooth- 
ache, but we took Rover, our big watch- 
dog. I say *we 3 for father had given us 
permission to accompany him. We found 
both doors wide open. We went through 
all the lower rooms without finding any 


89 


The Strange Old Man 

one or the trace of any one save footprints 
on the dusty boards. Then we followed 
father cautiously upstairs, where, in the 
first room we entered, a mattress lay upon 
the floor. Bacon rind and cracker crumbs 
were all that gave evidence of recent oc- 
cupation — excepting a white wig and long 
straggling white beard lying upon the 
window sill. 

“Our bird has flown,” said father, after 
we had gone downstairs, and seated our- 
selves on the doorstep. “Very likely we 
shall never know who was the hero of your 
adventure, boys.” But we were to learn 
it, and that very soon. Father took the 
paper of the preceding day from his 
pocket and began to read it, while my 
brothei’ and I wandered about the garden. 

“Come here, Maurice,” he called out, 
after a while. We both responded to the 
call. 

“Did you ever see that face?” he asked, 
pointing to a picture in the paper. 


90 The Strange Old Man 

“Why, that’s the man. Who is he, 
father?” cried Maurice. 

“The ‘King of the Counterfeiters,’ ” he 
replied. “A thousand dollars is offered 
for his capture. See what you have 
missed. I think, boys, that your love of 
adventure ought to be satisfied for the 
time being.” 

We talked of it for days. But a mys- 
terious awe fell upon our young souls 
when father read one morning in the paper 
that Jenkins Preston, the “King of the 
Counterfeiters,” had been traced to a 
steamer in which he was about to leave for 
South America, in a well-contrived dis- 
guise, and that at the moment when the 
detective was about to handcuff him he 
jumped over the railing, and was seen no 
more. Though vaguely realizing that it 
was useless, we said some fervent prayers 
that night for his soul. It was a long 
time before we ventured again to “The 
House with the Golden Windows,” 


91 


The Strange Old Man 

though we were to have another and more 
satisfactory experience within its walls. 
But we must leave that for another chap- 
ter. 


CHAPTER VII 


TONITA 

M rs. Vandeling was not at home 
when the foregoing incidents took 
place, but as soon as she returned 
we all drove over to see her, and re- 
lated to her what had occurred. She 
was very much interested. When father 
told her the name of the man she re- 
plied, “He spoke truly when he said 
the house belonged to him, for he 
was the only one left of the Preston fam- 
ily. There were four sons. Colonel 
Preston, their father, believed in allowing 
children to have their own way, saying 
that it would make them self-reliant and 
manly. He also gave them all the money 
they wanted. As a natural result they 
became worthless young men, reducing 
him almost to beggary before he died. 

92 


Tonita 


93 


The one you speak of was the youngest. 
I presume that when his own money failed 
him he had recourse to baser means to 
find more. He was very clever in many 
ways, and a fine engraver. Poor fellow, 
it would have been better if he had never 
learned to write, than to have become a 
forger and counterfeiter. The house has 
been abandoned for several years.” 

“I wonder that he did not sell it long 
ago,” remarked my mother. 

“Perhaps he had a sentimental affec- 
tion for it,” said Mrs. Vandeling. “If so, 
it stands to his credit.” 

We were very much impressed by these 
remarks and other things she told us of 
the Preston family. One day when we 
were bicycling, I proposed that we pay 
the old house another visit. Maurice 
agreed, and we rambled about the garden 
for some time. There were a number 
of fruit trees in an enclosed space behind 
the kitchen. They were loaded with 


94 


Tonita 


peaches and pears, with which we filled 
our pockets. We went all over the house 
this time; there was a lovely view from 
the second-story piazza. 

“Let us ask mother and Mrs. Vande- 
ling to come over some day, for a picnic,” 
proposed Maurice. 

“Yes, that would be fine,” I rejoined. 
“We can bring some large baskets and fill 
them with fruit. There may be some 
plants here they would like.” 

Our plan met with general approval, 
but the visit was delayed until the follow- 
ing week. We started about nine o’clock 
one morning; we were to call for Mrs. 
Vandeling on the way. Father and 
mother were in the two-seated carriage; 
Maurice and I had our bicycles. We 
reached “The House with the Golden 
Windows” about half-past ten. Mary had 
provided an excellent luncheon, the bas- 
kets were deposited on the piazza, and the 
ladies seated themselves on the camp- 


Tonita 


95 


chairs we had brought in the carriage. 
After they had rested a while we made a 
tour of the garden. Mrs. V andeling and 
mother were delighted with its wild 
beauty. Mother thought it a great pity 
that such a charming place could not be 
tenanted. 

“There are so many persons who would 
enjoy it as a summer residence,” she said. 
“I wonder that some one does not buy and 
repair it.” 

“No doubt some one will, now that the 
last Preston is gone,” said father. “There 
may be other heirs, of course; I do not 
know.” 

The ladies were equally pleased with 
the inside of the dwelling, so spacious, 
well lighted, and solidly built with a pleas- 
ant outlook from every window. The 
only thing they did not like was the stair- 
case. Maurice and I went ahead as they 
mounted to the second story. 

“Here is the room where the man 


96 


Tonita 


slept!” said I, opening the door. The 
mattress was gone. 

“What can have become of it?” said 
Maurice. “It was certainly here.” 

“Some one has been in the house,” ob- 
served my father. “Probably a tramp 
who hauled the mattress away.” 

“I hardly think it could have been a 
tramp,” said Mrs. Vandeling. “Tramps 
do not bother to haul mattresses about. 
Perhaps you are mistaken, boys, as to the 
room.” 

“No,” answered father. “I am very 
positive it was here.” 

There was no furniture of any descrip- 
tion to be found in any of the rooms. At 
last, in the chamber over the kitchen we 
came to a projecting closet about nine feet 
square. Perhaps I should have called it 
an anteroom. Martin opened the door; 
a tiny window set high up in the wall ad- 
mitted a little light. On the floor was the 
missing mattress, and lying upon it sound 


Tonita 


97 


asleep, covered with an old horse-blanket^ 
was a beautiful little girl. She had lovely 
black, curling hair; long lashes rested on 
the curve of her pink cheeks ; her skin was 
quite dark, but smooth and clear. One 
hand was under her head, the other lay 
beside her. We could hear her regular 
breathing, but our coming did not wake 
her. For a moment we all stood in aston- 
ishment. No one spoke. My mother 
was the first to break the silence. 

“Dear little creature! Who can she 
be?” whispered mother. “And how did 
she come here?” 

“Perhaps a lost child, who, unable to 
find her way home, wandered in here and 
fell asleep,” said my father. 

But Mrs. Vandeling shook her head. 

“She does not belong in this neighbor- 
hood,” she said. “I know every family 
for miles around. And her skin is very 
dark. She is not an American child.” 
My father leaned over the little bare feet. 


98 


Tonita 


“The child has walked far,” he said. 
“The soles of her feet are scratched; they 
have been bleeding. She has not been ac- 
customed to going barefoot.” 

“Let us pull the mattress out of this 
close place,” said mother. “It may wake 
her, and that will be best. I can not see 
how the child sleeps so soundly unless she 
is ill, or has been drugged.” 

In a moment father had dragged the 
mattress into the room and opened one of 
the large windows. But still the little girl 
slept on. Maurice and I went back to 
the closet and found a little red cap on the 
floor. Beside it was a small empty vial. 
It emitted a sweet sickening odor. 

“Some sleeping potion,” said my father, 
passing it to Mrs. Vandeling. 

“Yes, or may be meant for something 
stronger,” she remarked. “I believe that 
child has been poisoned and left on the 
mattress in the closet to die.” 

“It is nothing but soothing syrup,” said 


Tonita 


99 


mother. “However, this bottle full might 
well be supposed to kill a child of that age. 
She can not be more than four.” 

“The would-be murderer missed his 
work then,” said father. “She is begin- 
ning to stir; she will wake soon.” 

The little one began to turn from side 
to side, half -moaning. Presently she 
lifted her head from the mattress, but it 
fell back again. She put her hand to 
her forehead and murmured something 
we could not understand. Mrs. Vande- 
ling went close to her. 

“What is it, dear?” she asked. Again 
the child complained. 

“It is Spanish,” said our neighbor. 
“She says her head aches.” 

“I will fetch some water,” said Mau- 
rice, and ran downstairs. We had 
brought a large bottle of water, and some 
tumblers with us, for our luncheon. He 
soon returned with a glass. Mrs. Vande- 
ling placed it to the lips of the little girl, 


100 


Tonita 


holding her arm around her while she 
drank, which she did eagerly. 

“Buena” she said, when the glass had 
been drained, and once more lay down. 
But now her beautiful eyes were open, 
and she gazed about her with a charming, 
trustful smile, seeming to realize that we 
were friends. After a few moments she 
sat up with a happy smile, and patted 
Mrs. Vandeling’s hand. 

“What is your name, dear?” asked that 
lady in Spanish. 

“Tonita,” the child replied. 

“Where do you live?” 

“With Marta,” was the answer. That 
was all the information we could get. 
How she came there, or with whom, she 
would not, or could not, tell. But she 
seemed very happy and content with us, 
though still a little drowsy. Finally, 
father carried her downstairs, while 
Maurice and I dragged the mattress after 
them. We placed it on the piazza, where 


Tonita 101 

she lay down again and seemed anxious 
to stay. 

At luncheon she ate little, and that very 
daintily. 

“She is a nice child,” said my mother. 
“She surely has been stolen. Her clothes 
are good; that frock is linen, embroidered 
by hand, showing that some one has loved 
her. Oh, how desolate the heart of her 
mother must be to-day, if she has one.” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Vandeling. 
“She may have been brought up from 
Mexico by a person who wished to get 
rid of her for some reason. Perhaps he 
only intended to kidnap her at first, but 
later, finding her troublesome, tried to put 
an end to her. 

“I am going to take her home with me,” 
she went on. “I know enough Spanish 
to understand all she says. Afterward 
she may become more communicative ; and 
herself give us a clue to her identity. She 
is a dear little thing; probably by the time 


102 


Tonita 


I shall have to give her up I shall have 
learned to love her very much.” 

Although we could not understand each 
other at all, Tonita, Maurice and I be- 
came great friends before the afternoon 
was over. We made a “chair” for her 
with our clasped hands, carrying her 
about, for her little feet were sore and 
swollen. She had a pretty, gurgling 
laugh which we loved to hear; we filled 
her dimpled hands with flowers, and 
mother made a daisy chain for her. We 
parted from her with great regret, and 
were almost selfish enough to wish that 
her relatives might not be found, for we 
both concluded that night that they had 
abandoned her. Maurice thought it pos- 
sible, however, that she had been stolen 
by gipsies, and left in the old house be- 
cause they feared detection. I could not 
agree with him in the opinion, as there 
had never been a gipsy seen in the neigh- 
borhood. We went over to Mrs. Vande- 


Tonita 


103 


ling’s quite early next day, and found 
Tonita running about the garden chasing 
butterflies. Mrs. Vandeling apologized 
for her attire, which we thought very 
pretty. It was white, resurrected from 
an old trunk in the attic — not in the latest 
style, perhaps, but most becoming. Her 
hair had been nicely curled; she seemed a 
flower among the flowers. Very soon 
Tonita spent almost as much time at our 
house as she did with Mrs. Vandeling. 
Frances adored her, father and mother 
petted her, and with us she took the place 
of the sister we had always longed for, 
but never had. 

Every possible effort was made to find 
her friends; advertisements were inserted 
in Mexican papers, but met with no re- 
sponse. 

At last it was decided among us that 
for some reason or other Tonita had been 
abandoned by her relatives, and that her 
father and mother were dead. Mrs. 


104 


Tonita 


Yandeling became so fond of her that she 
said many times it would break her old 
heart to part with her. She was such a 
dear and treasured gift to all; Maurice 
and I often dwelt upon the thought of the 
special Providence that led us to the old 
house that day, where otherwise our 
darling Tonita might have died in the 
dark and lonely closet. 


CHAPTER VIII 


FRANCOIS 

I shall never forget the summer we 
passed at a little village on the New- 
foundland coast. The Vandelings were 
with us; we always called Tonita Mrs. 
Vandeling’s little girl when we spoke of 
her to strangers, and so thought of her in 
our minds. She must have been about 
six years old at this time — it was the sec- 
ond summer after we found her. I re- 
member I had just entered my fifteenth 
year. Mrs. Vandeling had been at St. 
Hilaire when she was a child. It was a 
fishing- village, and the people were mostly 
French, simple, pious, honest, industrious 
folk. 

During our stay we lived in the house 
of a fisherman named Pierre Duchesne. 
He was by far the richest man in the 

105 


106 Francois 

place, though ordinarily he might have 
been called poor. He seemed to exercise 
great authority over the other fishermen, 
who consulted him in all their difficulties. 
Next to the Cure, Pierre was the most 
important personage in his native town. 
Our portion of the house was entirely 
detached from that of the Duchesnes’, 
though in the same garden. For there 
was really not a bad makeshift for a gar- 
den in that windy, sandy village. Mere 
Genevieve, Pierre’s wife, did our cooking, 
and she did it well. She was a kind, 
cheerful, and willing soul, much younger 
than her husband, who had been married 
before. There had been a son, the child 
of the first marriage, who had done some- 
thing in his youth which had caused Pierre 
much anxiety and suffering, and for which 
it was said he had vowed never to forgive 
Francois. But the stepmother had loved 
him as well as her own children — she had 
three, and it made her very sad to know 


Francois 10T 

that Pierre, so good and just in every 
other respect, could be so hard in this. 
The thing was the subject of talk with 
all the villagers, opinions being divided 
among them. We heard all about it 
through the medium of Denise, Mrs. Van- 
deling’s French maid, who had accompa- 
nied her* 

Pierre no longer went fishing; he said 
he was too old, but he was still a strong, 
sturdy man. His son Paul, a young man 
of twenty, and Rene, between sixteen and 
seventeen years, often went out in the 
boats with the others. Lucienne, the girl, 
was about my own age. She was full of 
life, and fond of all kinds of sport, though 
she never neglected work for play, and 
was of great assistance to her mother. 
The family were very united; there was 
only that one cloud over their lives. 
Francois, the son and brother, had done 
some disgraceful thing, and his name was 
never mentioned in the household. 


108 Francois 

Pierre had an old boat which he called 
the Louise , which, however, was still sea- 
worthy, and in this he often took us out on 
the water. 

One afternoon we were about to go sail- 
ing ; I think it must have been three o'clock 
or half past, when Maurice and I went 
down to the cottage to wait for Pierre, 
who was mending a net. But soon we 
began to realize that we could not go out 
that day. The sky became obscured with 
heavy clouds, the wind began to blow, and 
at the suggestion of Pierre we gathered 
around the huge fireplace, where a pile of 
driftwood was already placed, ready for 
lighting. 

“There you may all sit, eat apples, and 
crack nuts,” said the old fisherman, “and 
Mere Genevieve will tell you some of her 
wild Breton legends. Her people are 
from Brittany; her grandmother was the 
finest story-teller I have ever heard. 


Francois 109 

And Mere Genevieve has inherited the 
gift. Is it not so, children ?” 

“Yes,” said both Lucienne and her 
brother. “We love mother’s stories.” 

“And you, Maurice and Martin, have 
great love for stories also,” continued 
Pierre. “I have seen that already. 
When you go back to your distant home 
it will be with a store of tales the like of 
which you have never before heard.” 

It was not hard to coax Mere Genevieve 
to relate some of those curious Breton 
legends. Taking her knitting, she sat in 
the center of the circle about the fire which 
Rene had kindled, and we listened en- 
tranced, while the wind roared without 
and the waves lashed the beach. Sud- 
denly the rain came down with redoubled 
fury; the very house seemed to shake as 
the cloudburst swept against the windows. 

“God pity all that are in this storm, 
whether on sea or land,” murmured Mere 


110 Francois 

Genevieve, making the sign of the cross. 
“God save them and bring them safe to 
their homes. Children, pray fervently 
this day for all poor wanderers.” 

The good woman sighed heavily. To 
my surprise Pierre said, almost harshly, 

“What is the matter with you, mother? 
This is only a summer rain ; it will be over 
in a short time. And as for the boys and 
the fishing-boats you know well there are 
none out to-day.” 

“But there may be others, far away, 
who need prayers,” said his wife. 

“The farther they are from here, the 
less likely to be in the center of this 
storm,” answered Pierre, with a short, bit- 
ter laugh. “Go on, Genevieve, go on with 
your story. Do not frighten the chil- 
dren.” 

At that moment, some one knocked 
sharply at the door. 

“Who is there?” demanded Pierre. 

“A friend,” replied the person outside. 


Francois 111 

Pierre opened the door. A coast- 
guard, one of the life-saving men, stood 
on the threshold. Behind him was a tall 
man, wrapped in a long, black cloak. 

“It is the priest of Saint Dimas,’’ cried 
Mere Genevieve, going forward. 

“Yes,” replied the guard. “He has 
business with you, good people. I must 
go. I am on duty.” 

The guard disappeared; the priest 
stepped inside the cottage. 

Saint Dimas was about twelve miles 
from our village. The Cure was known 
only by sight to Pierre and Mere 
Genevieve. He was a new incumbent, 
having been installed after the recent 
death of the old priest who had served that 
parish more than forty years. 

“Sit down, M. le Cure,” said Mere 
Genevieve, after we had all stood up and 
bowed low to the priest. Maurice and I 
in our rough vacation clothes did not look 
different from the others. Indeed, we 


112 Francois 

were neither of us as handsome as the 
Duchesnes. The priest probably thought 
we were all one family, for he began at 
once without any hesitation. 

“Pierre and Genevieve Duchesne,” he 
said, “I bring you news from a dying 
man.” 

“From a dying man!” answered Mere 
Genevieve, growing very pale. 

“Yes, but a repentant one, who is sorry 
for the wrong he did to your family, and 
the grief he has made you suffer.” 

“I do not know him,” said Pierre, 
harshly. “I do not know him at all.” 

The priest looked at him reproachfully 
for an instant and then replied, 

“You do not know, either, what you 
are saying, my good man. Nor of whom 
I am speaking.” 

“Of our son, Francis,” said Mere 
Genevieve, glancing up at the picture of 
a young sailor which hung above the ehim- 


Francois 113 

ney-piece, and which she would never per- 
mit her husband to remove. 

“I do not know the person,” repeated 
her husband, sullenly. 

“You are mistaken,” rejoined the 
priest. “Once, you knew him well.” 

“He has wronged us deeply,” mur- 
mured Mere Genevieve, in a tearful voice, 
as she glanced from the priest to her hus- 
band and back again. One could see that 
she was trying to excuse Pierre’s manner 
to the Cure. 

“Yes, more even than you know,” said 
the priest. “But the most beautiful com- 
mandment of God is that which enjoins 
us to forgive our enemies. We all have 
need of mercy and forgiveness.” 

With these words he drew a leather 
portfolio from his pocket and taking a 
letter from its folds handed it to the fisher- 
man. “Bead for yourself,” he said. 

But Pierre shook his head. “I am not 


114 Francois 

learned, mon Pere,” he replied; “I can 
hardly read.” And he clasped his hands 
behind his back. 

“For ten years, up to the present year, 

I was chaplain at B prison,” said the 

priest. “The person to whom I allude 
was a good prisoner, though he would 
never perform his religious duties. But 
he did many little services for me, And I 
tried to be kind to him. I hold the re- 
sult in my hand.” 

The face of Pierre had grown hard and 
set. 

“In prison!” he exclaimed. “Worse 
still than I feared. I tell you, M. le Cure, 
I do not know the man.” 

“Probably we are not thinking of the 
same person,” said the priest. Then 
turning to Mere Genevieve he asked, 
“Will you hear this letter?” 

“Yes, Father,” she replied. “Kindly 
read it.” 

The priest read as follows: 


Francois 115 

“Being about to die, I repent of my 
past life, which has been evil ; particularly 
of the wrong I did to my old playmate 
and friend, Francis Duchesne, solely be- 
cause he was better liked and more for- 
tunate in every way than I. I was 
very fond of money, and had little of it. 
Several times Francois had entrusted 
small sums to me to put in the bank, as my 
business carried me often to the city. 
Some of it belonged to himself, some to 
his father. In all it amounted to about 
five hundred dollars. When Pierre 
Duchesne went himself to the bank and 
found no money there, he accused his son 
in my presence. Then and there I ex- 
claimed, ‘Francois, what did I tell you? 
That if you stole your father’s money, it 
would all come out !’ The boy was stupid 
with surprise; he did not say one word. 
Then his father turned upon him and 
cried out, ‘Thief, ingrate! go from these 
doors and never set foot inside this house 


116 Francois 

again.’ And so, without trying to defend 
himself, he left his home, with the male- 
diction of his father upon him. For two 
years I remained in St. Hilaire and then 
left it forever. In the city of Halifax I 
committed a crime for which I was sent to 
prison. I am dying, and sorry for my 
sins. I wish to release and acquit Fran- 
cis Duchesne from the suspicion and dis- 
grace which has lasted ten years. From 
a man who is confined in prison here, I 
have learned that he is working in the 
United States, in the Gloucester fisheries. 
I beg that Pierre Duchesne, his wife 
Genevieve, their children, including Fran- 
cis, their relations, friends, and neigh- 
bors, will pardon a great sinner and pray 
for the wicked soul of 

“Louis Mathieu.” 

The priest folded the paper. 

“Well,” he said, addressing Pierre. 
“Do you know this man?” 


Francois 117 

The old fisherman buried his face in his 
hands. Loud sobs came from his bosom. 
Mere Genevieve, Lucienne, and Rene 
were all weeping. Paul was not there. 
The priest laid his hand on Pierre’s shoul- 
der. 

“I will do all I can to help you find your 
boy,” he said. “I will write to-morrow.” 

“No, mon Pere, I go there,” said the 
old man. 

“Very well. And you forgive the sin- 
ner?” 

“Yes, M. le Cure, yes. I am not higher 
than Almighty God.” 

Those were the last words my brother 
and I heard as we stole quietly away. The 
storm was over, the sun shining brightly. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE NEW BOAT 

“T3ut will God forgive me?” These 
A3 words Mere Genevieve told my 
mother Pierre repeated many times that 
evening. He wept and sobbed until she 
almost feared he would lose his reason. 
Then their own Cure was brought, who 
calmed the old man, and assured him that 
all would now be well between himself 
and his Maker. Then Pierre wondered 
whether Francois might not spurn his old 
father, who had done him so much injus- 
tice. But neither the Cure nor Mere 
Genevieve feared anything of the kind. 

Pierre started next day; he was some- 
what familiar with the place to which he 
was going, having been there once before. 
After his departure the whole house was 

put in readiness for the arrival of the long- 
ue 


The New Boat 


119 


lost son and brother. The little room he 
had occupied, which had long been given 
over to odds and ends, was scrubbed and 
garnished ; his picture taken from the wall, 
the glass removed, and cleaned, and put 
back again; the gilt frame scoured with 
soap and water. It was a fresh, boyish 
face, honest and sweet. Maurice and I 
both wondered how the father could have 
doubted such a son. 

“What to me was the strangest,” said 
Mere Genevieve, pausing in her polishing 
of the window-panes, “was the quickness 
with which the poor boy did as his father 
told him. He did not try to excuse him- 
self ; he did not say one single word. Only 
his blue eyes filled, and his lips trembled 
so — oh, how they trembled. And then 
when I came in here to talk to him, and 
see if I could not do something, he was 
gone. I see now that he was so cast down 
by the story of that wicked Louis and so 
wounded that his father believed it, he had 


120 The New Boat 

to go without one word. Poor, poor 
Francois !” 

“What was Louis like?” I inquired. 

“Not to my taste — ever,” said Mere 
Genevieve. “Too sweet and oily in his 
speech — too great a flatterer, was Louis 
Mathieu. He had only his old grand- 
mother and he left her to be cared for by 
strangers. Yet I did not think he could 
do so vile a thing as he has done. But 
‘God forgive him/ is what we must say 
now.” 

“Did you believe Francois had stolen 
the money, Mere Genevieve?” asked 
Maurice. 

“I am afraid I did,” she replied. “He 
did not deny it; he did not even try to 
deny it. What else could I think? But 
I was very sorry for the boy, and have 
grieved very much at the obstinacy of his 
father, who has suffered too, in his heart. 
Now he will be a young man again — when 
he has found Francois. The villagers had 


The New Boat 


121 


never known the cause of the banishment 
of Francois until now, save through hints 
let fall by Louis Mathieu. They had sus- 
pected the truth, and all are rejoiced that 
the boy has been vindicated, because he 
was a general favorite.” 

Louis Mathieu had died in prison. 

It was a happy day in the village when 
Pierre came home, accompanied by the son 
whom he had driven away ten years before. 
Somehow, everybody seemed to have for- 
gotten that he must have grown older; 
they expected to see the young, beardless 
boy who had left St. Hilaire so suddenly 
and under such sorrowful and disgraceful 
circumstances. 

But instead they saw a stalwart man of 
thirty, with a beard like his father’s, only 
that it was brown. The eyes, too, were the 
same, but the smile and the voice belonged 
to Francois himself, and were a great 
charm. The past seemed to be entirely 
blotted from his mind; he rejoiced in his 


122 


The New Boat 


father and mother, his brothers and little 
sister, in his home and friends. We were 
soon included among the latter. 

Francois at once set about building a 
boat; he had learned to do it, with numer- 
ous other things, since his departure. He 
had also been in many lands, having 
shipped as a sailor, and continued at sea 
almost from the time of his departure un- 
til his return home. He had accumulated 
a large number of souvenirs of different 
countries, and closely observed the habits 
and customs of the various people among 
whom his life had been cast. He aff orded 
us many a pleasant and profitable hour 
as we sat beside him, day after day, while 
he fashioned The Swallow , a trim and 
swift little craft, with the carven figure of 
the bird for whom it had been named 
poised at the bow, ready for flight. 

Better than all, Francois had kept his 
early faith and piety and told us of many 
churches and shrines he had seen, as well 


The New Boat 


123 


as of a visit to Lourdes, where he had seen 
a man arise and walk who had been bed- 
ridden for thirty years. 

Francis was particularly fond of To- 
nita, who followed him about everywhere, 
and for whom he made a beautiful 
miniature boat, complete in every respect, 
and with a shapely sail. This he called 
La Golondrinita 1 in compliment to the 
supposed nationality of Tonita. 

At last the new boat was ready. Fran- 
cis was to launch it next morning. We 
had often gone out with Pierre, and now 
mother had given us leave to try the new 
boat, perfectly certain that we would be as 
safe with Francis as we had been with his 
father. 

Before starting we had an edifying 
and touching ceremony. The Duchesnes 
brought down a bottle of holy water, which 
Mere Genevieve broke on the prow of 
the boat, saying as she did so, “I baptize 

i The little swallow. 


124 


The New Boat 


thee The Swallow of Saint Mary ” 
Then we all knelt, and lifting up his eyes 
to heaven, with head uncovered, Pierre 
prayed as follows: 

“O God of the winds and the waves, 
who holdest both in the hollow of Thy 
hand, bless this work of ours and bear it 
safely upon the waters. Send it forth in 
paths of peace only ; bring it home again to 
its moorings from every voyage. Be Thou 
its guide and pilot, its beginning and its 
end. In the name of the Father, and of 
the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” 

After a moment’s respectful silence, 
Francis produced a bottle of red wine 
which he opened, every one taking a sip. 
The little craft was now pronounced 
ready. In a few seconds it was riding 
gallantly on the waves, and we were all 
waving our hands to the older members 
of the party, who were watching us from 
the shore. 

The sea was splendid that morning; at 


The New Boat 


125 


the horizon a deep purplish blue, melting 
into a dark, then a brighter green, fringed 
with amethyst and rose, near the sandy 
shore. The sun shone in a cloudless sky; 
it was an ideal day. 

“What beautiful weather !” exclaimed 
Lucienne, who sat in the stern with her 
arm around Tonita. Just behind her 
Paul presided at the helm. 

“It is fine, it is fine,” cried Tonita. “I 
wish we could five in this boat, always, 
always.” 

“Just as you are? Away from mama 
and friends?” asked Lucienne. 

“Oh, no,” answered the child. “In a 
larger boat then, with everybody.” 

“Wait a while. You may get seasick. 
Then you will not like it so well,” said 
Maurice. 

“We are not going any farther than 
Rochemont. That is at the head of the 
bay,” said Francois. “I used .to be so 
fond of that place; now I am going to see 


126 The New Boat 

it again. I wonder if it has changed very 
much.” 

“Not much,” answered Paul. “Some 
of the rocks have been washed away, that 
is all.” 

The boat went more and more swiftly, 
the sails looked like the wings of a white 
bird. We sat quietly skimming the 
waves ; the sensation of moving on the rip- 
pling surface of the water was delightful. 

“Turn now, turn now,” cried Francis, 
sharply, after a while. 

“You do not forget anything,” said the 
boy. “This is just the place I was going 
to turn when you spoke.” 

“No, I have forgotten nothing,” re- 
joined Francis. “I have been here many 
a time in my dreams.” 

A few moments later we came to the 
great rock which gave the place its name. 
Its triangular peak jutted pointedly above 
the water. Small, sharp rocks projected 
from the shore far into the bay. 


The New Boat 


127 


“It is nearly high tide,” said Francois. 
“We could not get so close if it were not. 
On the other side there is a cave. Per- 
haps we may be able to explore it.” 

“Can we go in with the boat?” asked 
Maurice. 

“Oh, no,” replied Francis. “We must 
land first, then climb a little hill, and go 
down another until we reach the entrance 
of the cave. Isn’t that the way, Paul?” 

“Yes, that is right,” answered Paul. 

We skirted the shore for some moments. 
At length Francois called out, “Enough, 
stop.” 

In the twinkling of an eye Paul and 
Rene were in the water, which came al- 
most to their knees, each with the end of 
a rope in his hand. Francois followed, 
the boat was pulled up quickly, grating 
along the sand, and we all disembarked. 
The rope was fastened securely around a 
sharp, slender rock which stood like a 
dwarf sentinel on the beach, and we pre- 


128 


The New Boat 


pared to ascend the winding path, Fran- 
cis leading the way, with great strides. 
We were obliged to run in order to keep 
up with him. It wound around and 
round, ending abruptly on a narrow plat- 
form, on the other side of which a sim- 
ilar path descended. Francis now took 
Tonita on his shoulder, still leading, 
the rest following. Not far from the 
shore a flock of seals had gathered; we 
could see their brown heads lifted above 
the water, as they uttered their short, 
harsh barks. The rocks began to grow 
larger. They were close together, form- 
ing a series of narrow passages, leading 
to our destination. The ground was full 
of little deep, clear pools, in which crabs 
and other small fish disported themselves. 
Some of them were red, some green, while 
others seemed to display all the colors of 
the rainbow. Limpets clung to the slimy 
rocks and there were mussels in the larger 
pools. But we had no time to stay to ex- 


12 $ 


The New Boat 

amine all these delightful curiosities; the 
grotto must be visited first. Suddenly a 
large rock blocked the pathway. Be- 
neath it was an irregular opening, neither 
very high nor wide. 

“This is the Grotto of the Frogs,” said 
Francois. “It has not changed at all 
since I last saw it, more than ten years 
ago. Shall we go in?” 

And like so many sheep we followed our 
leader. 


CHAPTER X 


THE GROTTO OF THE FROGS 

hy do they call it such a funny 



name?” asked Tonita, as Fran- 


cois lifted her to his shoulder, so that she 
might not cut her feet on the sharp stones 
on the floor of the little cave. 

“Because,” answered Paul, “there used 
to be a long, narrow pool at one side 
where the frogs bred and croaked forever. 
They were always here.” 

“I do not see or hear any now,” said 
the child. 

“The pool dried up suddenly,” rejoined 
Rene. “One day it was here full of frogs; 
the next time people came it was gone and 
the frogs with it.” 

“Maybe fairies!” said Tonita, in a low 
voice. 

“Perhaps,” replied Maurice. “We 


130 


The Grotto of the Frogs 131 

could make a good story of that, Martin/’ 
(We had already begun to write stories.) 

Meanwhile, the narrow opening by 
which we entered had been left behind. 
As we progressed, the irregular floor 
seemed to ascend, the walls stretched 
apart, the rocky ceiling arched more and 
more. At the end of the cave, where sev- 
eral points of light penetrated through 
narrow slits in the side, stood a huge block 
of granite, terminating at the top in a 
cylindrical knob, shaped by the action of 
the water, which at high tide trickled down 
the rock, forming minute pools at the base 
of the granite. On the land side of the 
cave numerous small passage-ways, about 
large enough for the body of a man to 
pass through, seemed to lead nowhere but 
to intense darkness. All about the base 
of the large boulder small flat stones had 
been piled upon each other two and two. 
They served for seats, and we quickly 
utilized them for that purpose. It was 


132 The Grotto of the Frogs 

very pleasant in the cave after one had 
been accustomed to the semi-darkness. 
The atmosphere was pure, and the noise 
of water falling drop by drop made an 
agreeable sound. 

“It is like a leaky roof during a heavy 
rain,” said Francois. “A drop here, a 
drop there, and you never know where to 
expect the next. It makes me sleepy; it 
always did. The grotto lias hardly 
changed, Rene.” 

“No, I remember it this way since I was 
a very little child,” replied the boy. 

Suddenly Rene sprang up, and with a 
loud cry disappeared in one of the dark 
aisles. His voice echoed through the cave 
again and again, till we thought it would 
never cease. Tonita was disposed to be 
afraid, but we all reassured her. In a 
few moments Rene appeared once more, 
saying, 

“It is all right, back there in the dark 
cave, Francois. Shall we take them in?” 


The Grotto of the Frogs 133 

“You are not afraid to come?” asked 
F ran9ois. 

“Not if you carry me,” said Tonita. 
The others had no fears. Rene ran ahead, 
and presently we came upon him at the 
end of the dark passage busily lighting 
three torches of pine wood. He handed 
one to Paul, one to me, and kept the third 
himself. It was very dark in this portion 
of the cave, but the place was smaller than 
the outer grotto, and the torches were 
quite sufficient to illuminate it. Large 
stalactites hung from the roof ; in the light 
of the torches these took on all the tints 
of the rainbow. In the middle of the open 
space there was a circular mass of granite 
shaped like a large table. 

“This is the Dining Hall of the 
Gnomes,” exclaimed Maurice. 

“That would be a fine name for it,” said 
Paul. “Mother has told us of many such 
caves in her legends.” 

The atmosphere in this portion of the 


134 The Grotto of the Frogs 

cave was not so good as that in the other. 
We returned in a few moments and again 
sought the open air. On our way out we 
startled a long procession of crabs, mak- 
ing their way to the little pools. We lin- 
gered to watch them until Francis said, 

“It is time to go back to the boat. Let 
us hasten our steps. We must not lose 
the tide.” 

We hurried as fast as we could, Tonita 
again on Francis’ shoulder. But when 
we reached the spot where we had left the 
boat, it was not there. 

“What can have become of it?” ex- 
claimed our captain. “Did you fasten it 
securely, Paul?” 

“Yes, I am sure of that,” replied his 
brother. “Some one must have taken 
it.” 

Francis had a glass in his pocket. He 
put it to his eyes, and scanned the waters. 
At some distance out a boat was visible. 

“Is it drifting?” asked Paul. 


The Grotto of the Frogs 135 

“No, there seem to be two persons in 
it. And it is our boat. What shall we 
do?” 

“They may come back,” said Paul. 
“They may have meant to take it only for 
a short time.” 

“But that we do not know,” said Fran- 
cis. “And in the meantime the tide is 
rising, and we shall not be able to wait to 
see what they are going to do. We shall 
have to go around by land over the rocks. 
It is a long, long walk.” 

“If we can only get awa3^ from here up 
to the cliffs, we might wait for the boat,” 
said Paul. “I am sure that no thief has 
taken it.” 

“But then the tide will be low, and we 
can not beach it,” said Francois. “How- 
ever, there is nothing to be done now but 
get off of these rocks before high tide.” 

We rather enjoyed the element of dan- 
ger in our return trip from the grotto. 
Now and then a high wave would graze our 


136 The Grotto of the Frogs 

footsteps, at which we would cry out and 
then hope for another. Tonita, high and 
dry, on the shoulder of Francis, was in 
her element. When we reached the cliffs 
the boat was out of sight. Presently a 
boy came running toward us. His name 
was Roque and he lived in one of the few 
huts that formed the tiny fishing village 
of Ambrais. 

“Was that your boat, Paul?” he cried, 
as he neared us. 

“Yes, it w T as ours,” rejoined Paul. 
“What do you know of it?” 

“Jean took it out. We did not see him 
till he had gone. He has Mere Toner’s 
boy with him. They are both idiots, but 
J ean can manage a boat all right. He is 
crazy for sailing; it is not the first time 
he has run away with a boat.” 

“Who is Jean,” asked Francois of Paul. 
“Is it true that he knows how to manage 
a boat?” 

“He is the son of the widow Conard,” 


The Grotto of the Frogs 137 

said Paul. “He is a grown man, and I 
have seen him sailing.” 

“They do not let him go fishing with 
the others because he takes fits,” said 
Roque. “But he will do no harm to your 
boat. I believe he is turning around 
now.” 

“I hope he does not have a fit while he 
is commanding our new Swallow said 
Francis. “But we must trust to Provi- 
dence, Paul; if we wait here it may be 
almost low tide when he comes in. In 
that case we will have to take it around 
by the cave, which will keep us here too 
long. It would be dark night before we 
got home. If there is any wagon to be 
found hereabouts, we would better go back 
by land. That is, most of us. You and 
Rene stay here to bring the boat home.” 

“Yes, there is a wagon and two mules,” 
said Roque. “It belongs to Jean Michel; 
he will gladly lend it to you. Shall I tell 
him?” 


138 The Grotto of the Frogs 

^ “No, we will go over there,” said Fran- 
cois. “A good thing that we took the pre- 
caution to hide our luncheon behind the 
rocks, or we would not have had any.” 

“What prudent person did that?” I in- 
quired. “Neither Maurice nor I would 
have thought of it.” 

“Francois told me to do it,” said Lu- 
cienne. “Here it is.” 

We were glad to see that great basket, 
filled with good things, and rather pleased 
than otherwise at the prospect of driving 
home. When we came to the group of 
huts, we found Jean Michel, an old man 
in his bare feet, mending a net. He rec- 
ognized Francois at once from his resem- 
blance to Pierre in his youth, and wel- 
comed him warmly, with many a blessing. 

Oh, yes, he would lend the wagon, and 
ask no pay for it either, except perhaps 
a sack of fodder, which was very high just 
now. And perhaps a bit of dried beef. 
Mere Genevieve had the secret of curing 


The Grotto of the Frogs 139 

beef, as had no other housewife in the five 
parishes. 

Under the shade of an old boat we ate 
our plentiful luncheon, and then Francis 
said it was time to start, as we had a good 
three hours’ ride before us. After we had 
started we saw Paul and Rene, accompa- 
nied by Roque, running forward to the 
top of the cliffs; from which we inferred 
that the boat had again been sighted. I 
was very much impressed by the calmness 
with which Francis encountered every 
disagreeable incident. His large, placid 
eyes and gentle face were patience person- 
ified, a patience which had been his birth- 
right and which had enabled him to endure 
injustice and banishment for so many 
years and to forgive his enemies and those 
who had deeply though unwittingly 
WTonged him. 

That was a merry ride, even though it 
seemed that our bones would be jolted out 
of our bodies before we reached home. 


140 The Grotto of the Frogs 

For part of the way there was no road 
save that indicated by scattered wagon 
tracks of infrequent occurrence; for these 
peopled traveled mostly by water from 
hamlet to hamlet. The highroad was too 
long and circuitous for them. 

Great was the surprise of our friends 
when they saw us arriving in the huge 
wagon. At first they feared that some 
accident had befallen us, but our joyful 
shouts soon told them otherwise. The 
moon was high in the heavens when Paul 
and Rene reached St. Hilaire, our lively 
little Swallow none the worse for her 
adventurous trip. 

Jean had brought her back in good 
time, and had secured some fine scarpino 
on the other side of the island, several of 
which the boys had brought home. Mere 
Genevieve fried them for breakfast, and 
every one declared they had never tasted 
such delicious fish in their lives. We all 
went about with aching bones for a couple 


The Grotto of the Frogs 141 

of days, but we had enjoyed our trip so 
well that if we had been invited to repeat 
it there would not have been a single dis- 
senting voice. 

A few days after this, Mrs. Yandeling 
received a telegram requesting her to re- 
turn immediately, as important business 
was awaiting her. Our stay at St. Hil- 
aire was thus cut short, and we were all 
greatly disappointed, including the Du- 
chesne family, who had become deeply 
attached to us. Our sojourn among them 
had taught us that the rarest and most 
attractive virtues are to be found among 
the poor, especially when they have the 
true ideal and practice of religion. The 
good Cure also had treated us with the 
greatest kindness. On the night before 
our departure, Maurice and I went with 
father to take leave of him once more ; he 
had already bidden adieu to mother and 
Mrs. Vandeling. 

There, to our surprise, we found Pierre, 


142 The Grotto of the Frogs 

Mere Genevieve, and Francis. The 
mother had been crying; there were still 
tears upon her pale cheeks. The aspect 
of all three was very serious. 

“I hope you are not in trouble,” said 
my father, looking from one to the 
other. 

“We are and we are not, Sir,” replied 
Pierre. “Here we were just rejoicing at 
the return of our Francis, and — and — ” 

“Shall I tell them?” he continued, tail- 
ing to his son. 

“Very well,” was the reply. “They are 
discreet; they are going away; they have 
been our very good friends and tenants; 
it is not important to them, of course, but 
it will do no harm.” 

Here Mere Genevieve burst into tears. 

“I am a wicked woman,” she exclaimed. 
“I ought only to be glad.” 

“But what is it?” asked my father, while 
Maurice and I were consumed with curi- 
osity. 


The Grotto of the Frogs 143 

“On Monday Francis goes to Geth- 
semani,” said Pierre. 

“To the Garden of Olives,” cried Mau- 
rice. “So far? But why lament for that 
— it must be a fine journey to take.” 

“To Gethsemani in Kentucky, I 
mean,” said Pierre. “He goes to be a 
monk at La Trappe.” 

Ah! we understood now why Francis 
had seemed to know so much about those 
good men who devote their lives to the 
service of God and perpetual silence. At 
that moment he took on a new aspect for 
us; he seemed as one set apart from our 
world, and so it was, he was about to re- 
nounce it! 

“Yes,” he said, with one of his delight- 
ful smiles. “I would have gone long ago, 
but that I was under a ban, and could not 
go. Now, it is all settled — and I am 
happy.” 

We went home in the twilight together 
for the last time, Francois more gay than 


144 The Grotto of the Frogs 

we had ever seen him, Pierre and Mere 
Genevieve depressed and silent, the rest of 
us also a little sad. Our pleasant vacation 
was over; travelers upon the sea of life, 
our barks had hailed each other in passing 
and were now to pursue their different 
paths, never to meet again. 


CHAPTER XI 


NEW ACQUAINTANCES 

W hen we reached home we found 
that “The House with the Golden 
Windows” was occupied. It had been 
painted, the garden put in order, and little 
children were playing about the lawn. 

We did not know whether to rejoice or 
be sorry at this new state of affairs; the 
place had seemed to belong to us ; we had 
delighted in roaming about the overgrown 
garden and running through the dusty 
rooms. Mrs. Vandeling and our parents 
were pleased at the change, however, and 
the former at once set about discovering 
the names and prestige of our new neigh- 
bors. Mrs. Vandeling was eccentric, 
often brusk, hut she was always on good 
terms with those about her, though chary 
of giving her friendship until she felt 

145 


146 


New Acquaintances 

confident of congeniality and kindness on 
the other side. One morning she drove 
over in the pony phaeton; Tonita was with 
her. 

“I have found out who our neighbors 
are,” she said. “They are very nice peo- 
ple. It is the family of the Consul at 

C . His wife is delicate. They have 

taken the place for a year.” 

“Do they speak English?” inquired my 
mother. 

“Oh, yes. I believe Madame Garriga 
was educated at Manhattanville. She 
seems very sweet — and the children are 
lovely.” 

“Have you called?” asked mother. 

“Oh, no. We must go together. Can 
you come to-day?” 

“Yes,” was the reply. “Whenever you 
please.” 

“We shall be quite a little Catholic col- 
ony now,” said Mrs. Vandeling. “I think 


New Acquaintances 147 

I shall be able to get a priest down oc- 
casionally for Mass.” 

Tonita was already running about the 
garden with Maurice. I remained seated 
on the piazza, where we had been reading 
when they arrived. 

“Perhaps you may be able to find 
Tonita’s friends now,” I said. 

“That possibility has occurred to me,” 
remarked Mrs. Vandeling. “And I con- 
fess to you, Martin, that it has filled me 
with dread. I do not know how I could 
give up the child. Still, it is my duty to 
do what I can to learn who she is.” 

“I don’t think you need have any fears,” 
said my father. “Tonita will not be taken 
from you. You advertised in a great 
many papers, both here and in Mexico. 
If she was a child whom people wished to 
reclaim, you would have heard long ago 
from her relatives.” 

“Yes, it is likely. Still I shall be un- 


148 New Acquaintances 

easy, nevertheless,” answered our kind 
neighbor. 

Father and mother and Mrs. Vandeling 
made their call in the afternoon. They 
were charmed with our new neighbors. 
There were two boys, younger than Mau- 
rice and myself, two little girls, twins, 
about Tonita’s age, and a baby a year old. 
And they had two Japanese servants. 
This made Maurice and myself very anx- 
ious to call; we were greatly interested in 
Japan, and had never seen a Japanese. 

Mrs. Vandeling had told the new people 
about Tonita; they had seemed much in- 
terested in the story. 

Before the week had expired we were 
already on the way to being good friends. 
The boys were intelligent and well-bred, 
and the little girls were charming; my 
father took pleasure in having made a 
new and agreeable acquaintance, and my 
mother was greatly attracted toward the 
Senora. It seemed they had both been 


New Acquaintances 149 

pupils, though at different times, at the 
Convent of the Sacred Heart in Brussels. 
This was a bond between them. 

Until the novelty wore off I think the 
interest of Maurice and myself was con- 
fined chiefly in the Japanese boys. They 
were small and brown, with such bright, 
sparkling eyes; they looked so clean and 
neat in their white jackets and aprons, 
which they never seemed to soil, though 
they wore them all day ; they were so capa- 
ble, kind, and obliging that we were never 
tired of watching them and talking to 
them. The Consul had secured them in 
California; they were both students, de- 
voting nearly all their spare time to the 
study of English and Spanish. But after 
we had learned to know the boys, our chief 
interest in one of them centered in the 
fact that he was a pious Catholic. He 
had early been left an orphan and had 
been taken in by the Marist Brothers at 
Tokio. He could speak French very 


150 New Acquaintances 

well, and had a fair knowledge of Italian. 
He had a great desire to travel, and had 
been taken as cabin-boy on one of the 
few Japanese cruisers that have visited 
America. On the vessel there was also a 
Japanese officer who was a Catholic. 
These two were the only Christians on 
board, though the crew numbered 750, in- 
cluding officers. 

“I was then Consul at San Diego,’' said 
Senor Garriga. “The vessel put in there, 
remaining nearly two weeks. The sail- 
ors were excellently well-behaved, fre- 
quenting not the saloons, when on leave, 
but the book stores and picture stores. 
I happened to learn from the pastor of 
the Catholic church a most edifying inci- 
dent concerning these two young men. 
Neither the officer nor the cabin-boy was 
off duty in the morning. Therefore they 
could not attend Mass. But as both 
wished to go to confession and commun- 
ion, they fasted till between two and three 


New Acquaintances 151 

in the afternoon one day, came over from 
the boat, and received the sacraments . 1 
It was there that Tanaka left the ship and 
entered our service. He has been with us 
ever since.” 

“They seem far superior to the Chinese, 
do they not?” inquired Mrs. Vandeling. 

“Well, I can not say that,” answered 
the Consul. “These boys are an excep- 
tion, Tanaka because he is a Christian and 
a Catholic, and Yanno I think from his 
association with Tanaka. But, as a rule, 
I consider the Japanese far less reliable 
than the Chinese. Their appearance is 
more attractive, they accommodate them- 
selves to American ways more readily, but 
they are less cleanly, less truthful, less in- 
terested in their employers and their con- 
cerns than the Chinese. The word of a 
Chinaman is as good as his bond. He will 
often do more than he contracts to do; a 
Japanese — never.” I confess we were 
greatly disappointed to hear this, but it 

i A fact. 


152 New Acquaintances 

did not lessen our admiration for the two 
boys we knew, especially Tanaka. 

After a while we observed, however, 
that both were always especially pleased at 
any relation of sharp proceedings by which 
one person, for instance, had taken ad- 
vantage over another. We told this to 
father one evening, and he said: 

“That is probably in their blood. Tan- 
aka is, no doubt, a very good Catholic, and 
would not himself take advantage of any 
one, but there is something in him that he 
inherits from generations of ancestors who 
were nurtured in other paths.’’ 

Once father had a good joke at our ex- 
pense. 

“Once, in Yokohama,” said Maurice, 
evening, “to a story Tanaka told us this 
afternoon.” 

“Very well, what is it?” asked mother. 

“Once, in Yokohama,” said Maurice, 
“and this is the truth, Tanaka said, an 
Englishman went into a shop where they 


New A cquaintances 153 

sold animals to buy a certain kind of Jap- 
anese dog. They did not have what he 
wanted. ‘I have looked everywhere for 
that kind of dog,’ he said, ‘and am very 
sorry to have to go away without it. I 
would pay well for one.’ 

“ ‘When do you go?’ asked the shop- 
keeper. ‘Perhaps I may be able to get 
you one.’ 

“ ‘To-morrow,’ said the man. 

“ ‘Very well,’ said the merchant. ‘If 
you will tell me where to send the dog I 
promise you it will be there in time.’ 

“The Englishman told the man to send 
it to the railway station. When he got 
there the dog was waiting — an odd-look- 
ing dog, with white spots on a dark-colored 
skin. It was a pretty little thing though, 
and the gentleman liked it. He paid for 
it, and was going to take it in the car 
with him when a telegram came for him 
from the hotel. 

“ ‘I can not start to-day,’ he said to his 


154 New Acquaintances 

valet, who was standing by the luggage. 
‘We must return to the hotel/ 

“As they were walking back it started 
to rain very hard, and soon the white spots 
began to spread all over the dog. They 
had been painted, and when they got to 
the hotel the dog was a funny sight. The 
dog-seller had thought that the gentleman 
would not find out the trick until he was 
far away. The Englishman was so angry 
that he went to the shop at once with the 
dog. 

“ ‘What do you mean by selling me such 
a dog, by fooling me this way?’ he asked. 
And what do you think that shopkeeper 
did, father?” 

“He was very much embarrassed, I sup- 
pose, and hardly knew what to do,” an- 
swered father. 

“Well, he wasn’t,” replied my brother. 
“He just turned to his clerk and said: 

“ ‘Boy, how did you forget to take an 
umbrella with that dog? Don’t you 


New Acquaintances 155 

know that an umbrella always goes with 
that kind of dog, without extra charge?’ 
And the Englishman was so full of laugh- 
ter at the smart trick and the coolness of 
the J apanese that he walked away without 
getting his money back.” 

“I can hardly credit that,” said father, 
laughing, “but it was certainly a smart 
trick.” 

“Well,” said Maurice, “Tanaka and 
Yanno thought that was one of the best 
things they had ever heard. I suppose it 
must be true that the Japanese are great 
tricksters, don’t you think so, father?” 

“Perhaps,” answered my father. “But 
did not you and Martin laugh at it, and 
are not mother and I laughing now? It 
strikes me that human nature is, on the 
whole, very much akin wherever you find 
it.” 

“I suppose you are right,” said Mau- 
rice, slowly, after a moment’s reflection. 
I could not help agreeing with him. 


156 New Acquaintances 

We asked Tanaka and Yanno many 
questions concerning the jinrikisha men of 
Japan. We thought it would be a fine 
thing to be carried about by boys who ran 
between shafts like horses. Tanaka told 
us that everybody laughed the first time 
they entered a rikisha. There is some 
danger, also. The rikisha boys go in sin- 
gle file, but one is always trying to pass 
the other, and people are often knocked 
down in the street. They simply pick 
themselves up again, Tanaka told us, and 
made no fuss, unless they were foreigners. 
But they were usually careful not to knock 
down strangers. Yanno told us that the 
rikisha boys generally die young, and 
from heart disease, because they have to 
run so much, up hill and down hill, all 
day long, and far into the night. 

Both Tanaka and Yanno said they in- 
tended to go back to Japan some day, but 
also said they feared it would be hard for 
them to conform to some of the Japanese 


New Acquaintances 157 

customs, or to eat the food. Strange to 
say, neither of them cared for rice or tea, 
possibly because they had had too much 
of them at home. Tanaka told us a curi- 
ous thing about his family. It seems they 
lived in a village not far from the place 
where the first Christian converts were 
massacred in the sixteenth century. His 
people knew nothing, or very little, of this, 
but for several generations the name of 
Fuyuso, meaning “blessed,” had been 
given to the eldest boy. After he had 
learned something of Christianity, Tan- 
aka concluded that his ancestors had been 
among the converted Christians; perhaps 
some were even martyrs. He believed 
they had given the name to their sons out 
of reverence for our Saviour. It was de- 
lightful to listen to his descriptions of the 
miniature gardens of Japan, of its won- 
derful temples, nearly all hidden by trees, 
of its quaint customs, of its cool, clean 
houses. 


158 New Acquaintances 

“They are cold, clean houses in winter 
though,” said Yanno one day. “We have 
only braziers to keep us warm. But we 
do not mind it there.” 

Each of the boys had a Japanese flute 
on which they played every evening. 
Mrs. Vandeling said the music reminded 
her very much of music she had heard in 
Ireland, which rather offended Frances 
and Mary, who were not partial to brown 
skins of any kind. 


CHAPTER XII 


A DISCOVERY 

T onita soon became very friendly with 
the little Garriga children, and, 
strange to say, she also began to talk 
Spanish with them very fluently, although 
she had not spoken any for more than 
two years. Senor Garriga had a cousin, 

a doctor, who was living at C . The 

doctor was invited to spend a few days at 
the new country residence. He came, 
saw Tonita, and her story was told to 
him. 

“One can not tell,” he said, “whether 
it is not the greatest blessing that could 
have happened to this child that she should 
have fallen into such good hands. I can 
not believe she was stolen. Yet it would 
be a satisfaction to know that she was not 

159 


160 


A Discovery 

being kept from her parents who still 
mourn her. She may come of nice peo- 
ple, and she may not. In Mexico the 
children of the poorest and commonest 
peons are sometimes as sweet and beauti- 
ful as those of the better class.” 

“She is too fair to have been of the peon 
class,” said Senor Garriga. “She is of 
a higher class.” 

“Of course it would be only justice to 
restore her to her people, if they want her 
and can be discovered,” said Mrs. Vandel- 
ing. “But for my part, I feel that there 
is no one in Mexico who has wept as much 
for our little Tonita, as we w r ould here 
should she be taken away from us.” 

“She has certainly fallen in good 
hands,” said Doctor de Luna, and the sub- 
ject was dropped. 

The doctor was about to take his de- 
parture when he inquired whether there 
was any out-of-door place to be filled 
among the servants at the Garrigas. 


161 


A Discovery 

“I have a patient,” he said, “a young 
man. He has seen better days, but has 
led a dissipated life, has been discarded by 
his relatives, has spent a great deal of 
money, and can not live long. I would 
like to get him into the country for a while. 
He has a passion for gardening.” 

“Well, let him come,” said Senor Gar- 
riga. “But will it not be awkward to 
treat such a person as a servant?” 

“No,” replied the doctor. “He need 
not know that I have told you anything. 
He will not expect to be treated other- 
wise. He has lost nearly all his self-re- 
spect.” 

“So, so,” rejoined the Senor. “We 
must do a good turn to a fellow country- 
man when we can. Let him come.” 

Refugio came. He was a silent man, 
though kind. He seemed depressed and 
ill. When he arrived the Consul told 
father he looked about him in a frightened 
way and said, “I can not stay here. I can 


162 A Discovery 

not stay here.” But at last they per- 
suaded him to remain for a few days at 
least, and he consented. 

Fernando and Arturo Garriga, Mau- 
rice, and I were helping him pot some 
geraniums one morning when Mrs. Van- 
deling and Tonita drove up in the carriage 
to bring some melons, of which our friend 
had a large quantity in her garden. 
Tonita had grown a great deal, her skin 
was not so dark as it had been, her curls, 
which had clung to her head, now fell 
about her shoulders. 

Rosa and Pietra, the little girls, ran 
forward to welcome her, crying, “Tonita, 
Tonita, have you come to spend the day?” 
As they made the exclamation Refugio 
looked around, bowed to Mrs. Vandeling, 
and leaning on his spade surveyed the lit- 
tle girl; I saw him bite his lips, saw the 
tremor of his hands, and great drops of 
perspiration breaking out upon his fore- 
head. The child ran off with the others. 


163 


A Discovery 

and Refugio returned to his occupation. 
For a long time he was silent; then, turn- 
ing to me, he asked : 

“Is that the grandchild of the old lady? 
No?” 

“She is a little girl Mrs. Vandeling has 
adopted,” I said. 

“Since when?” 

“About two years ago.” 

“Ha!” murmured Refugio, drawing 
a long breath. “She has grown ; she looks 
well cared for and happy.” 

“Did you ever know her?” asked Mau- 
rice, coming nearer to Refugio. 

“Yes, I did know her,” was the reply. 

“Are you sure?” I inquired. 

“Mrs. Vandeling will be glad to hear 
that,” said Maurice. “She has tried very 
hard to find the relatives of Tonita. But 
I hope she will never be taken away from 
us.” 

“I think not,” said Refugio, throwing 
down his spade. ‘‘Boys, will you take me 


164 A Discovery 

to that lady? I can not work any more 
until I have seen her.” 

Maurice went in search of Mrs. Van- 
deling, who said she would come down to 
the garden to see the gardener. In this 
way we heard everything that was said. 

“It is about the little girl,” he began. 
“The boys have told me about her. I 
asked them some things — because I know 
her.” 

“You know her!” exclaimed Mrs. Van- 
deling, turning very pale. 

“Yes, sit down, madame ; here is a bench. 
Do not fear; it will be all right. She 
will not leave her good home.” 

“Where did you know her?” asked 
Mrs. Vandeling, sitting down. 

“In Mexico. She is my niece, the 
daughter of my brother. I brought her 
here.” 

“You!” exclaimed Mrs. Vandelingi, an- 
grily. “It is you then, who left her in 
this forsaken house — for it was forsaken 


A Discovery 165 

then? It is you who tried to murder 
her?” 

“Yes, it was I,” rejoined Refugio. “I 
thought I had sent her safely to Heaven. 
But always the fear followed me that per- 
haps she might not have died, and if she 
had not, I wondered where she was, and 
if she had, then perhaps her death was on 
my soul.” 

The man was weak and delicate, he 
could hardly stand; he seemed about to 
fall. 

“Sit down there,” said Mrs. Yandeling. 
“Tell me all your story.” 

He obeyed her and resumed : “It was 
for love, not for hate, that I did the thing, 
madame. My brother, my twin brother, 
he was very foolish. He married a girl 
who was very pretty and she was also good. 
But she was of a low class, a very low 
class. Her father had a wineshop in the 
City of Mexico. We were both foolish, 
my brother Antonio and I. We spent 


166 A Discovery 

much money — we spent all. We did not 
know how to work. He died at last, and 
the widow went back to her mother. I 
loved the baby, our little Tonita, and I 
could not bear that she should be there, in 
that place. Then the mother also died, and 
the grandmother did not care for the child 
— I knew it. She was willing to give her, 
or to sell her, to me. Then I had heard 
that in the United States they wanted 
many Spanish-speaking clerks, and I 
thought I might be a clerk there. I gave 
to old Marta twenty reales for Tonita, 
and we went away afterward/’ 

“How long was she with you?” asked 
Mrs. Vandeling. 

“Maybe six months, and they were hard 
months. Oh, I could tell you many 
things, and you would then say, madame, 
that it was better that I should let the 
little one die!” 

“No, no,” replied the old lady quickly. 
“That is false reasoning — but — go on.” 


167 


A Discovery 

“Very well. I could get nothing to do 
— then I could hardly speak English, and 
soon we had no more money. I could not 
ride in the cars ; my leg was sore — I could 
hardly step along. The child must walk. 
I could no longer carry her, and she cried. 
So I went into the store and I bought 
some ‘Sirop.’ Often I did read that a 
bottle of it had killed a baby. Many days 
we went, some people gave us to eat. 
Every day I lost my courage to give to 
Tonita that ‘Sirop.’ Then we came to 
the lonely house, and we had no more 
bread. I gave it to her and she drank it 
— all. I watched her fall asleep. Then I 
hurried away.” 

“You gave her too much,” said Mrs. 
Vandeling. “It served only to put her in 
a long sleep. There we found her — 
thank God.” 

Refugio lifted his cap. “Gracios a 
Dios” he repeated. “It is well with 
Tonita.” 


168 A Discovery 

“I wonder that your conscience did not 
trouble you,” said Mrs. Vandeling. 

“It did, madame, it did, as I told you,” 
Refugio replied. “First, I want to tell 
you. I wanted to kill myself, too — after 
the child. But everywhere that night I 
saw the face of my mother and to throw 
myself in the river I could not. In two 
weeks I came back to the lonely house. 
She was gone. ‘She is buried,’ thought I. 
‘Some one has found her. She is in 
heaven.’ And so I went away — some- 
times glad that I had sent her there, some- 
times sorry that I had, to wonder if God 
would forgive me. And so, I am nearly 
at an end, and soon I will make my con- 
fession and thank God that He has given 
a home to the child. But now maybe you 
will put me in prison.” 

“Have no fear. Poor creature! Poor 
creature!” said the old lady. “It is not 
for me to judge any man, but you would 
not have been brought to such an evil pass 


A Discovery 169 

if you had followed the counsels of your 
mother.” 

“Never,” said Refugio. “She was a 
saint — my mother.” 

“Will you fetch Tonita, Martin?” asked 
Mrs. Vandeling. I hastened to call her, 
and she came running to the garden, hold- 
ing my hand. 

“Do you remember this young man, 
Tonita?” inquired her adopted mother. 

The child looked at Refugio for some 
time. She wrinkled her pretty brows, 
smiled, shook her head, then came a step 
nearer, and gazed at the gardener. Sud- 
denly a great wave of color spread over 
her face — she put out her hand. 

“It is Tio Refugio,” she said. But the 
young man turned away, and leaning his 
head on his arms on the back of the bench 
he burst into tears. 

“Why does he cry?” whispered the child. 
“Why does he not speak to me ? I wanted 
to shake hands with him.” 


170 A Discovery 

No one knew what to do or say. We 
stood watching him in silence. He shook 
with sobs, but they soon subsided and 
turning toward us he said : 

“It is not the part of a man to cry, but 
I am so glad — it is such a relief to me — 
to see the child alive, so well and so happy. 
Yes, clniquita, it is Tio Refugio,” he con- 
tinued, taking the child’s hand in his, and 
kissing her on the forehead. She did not 
shrink from him; in her dainty white gown 
and pretty hat she seemed to feel no re- 
pugnance to his toil-worn garments and 
grimy hands. She was a dear little 
Tonita. 

After that, Refugio seemed to be able 
to work no more. The next day he could 
not get up, and when Saturday came 
again, and Doctor de Luna returned, he 
thought it better to have him removed to 

the Hospital in C . There he died; his 

funeral expenses were paid by Mrs. Van- 
deling, whose mind was now relieved of 


A Discovery 171 

the great uncertainty regarding the future 
of the little girl whom she had learned 
to love so dearly, and who made her 
lonely life so bright. She lost no 
time in changing the will she had made 
sometime before, in order to make provi- 
sion for Tonita when she had gone. My 
father was appointed her guardian. We 
all hoped that many years would pass be- 
fore our dear old friend should be called 
to her reward, but it was otherwise or- 
dained. Tonita was only eight years old 
when her benefactress died. Mrs. Van- 
deling’s children, who were already rich, 
were quite displeased that so large a sum 
should have been left to a child whom 
she had taken under such circumstances. 
They lived in Europe. Several of them 
came over to this country, intending to 
dispute the will. If they had, it might 
have made a great deal of trouble and 
expense for them, but not much for 
Tonita, who was under the guardianship 


172 A Discovery 

of my father, a most clever lawyer, as by 
this time Maurice and I had learned, to 
our great pride and satisfaction. Seeing 
that they could not break the will, Mrs. 
Vandeling’s children, who had treated her 
coldly and ungratefully during her life, 
now divided her portion among them, 
quarreled over her furniture, curios, and 
jewelry, and returned to Europe embit- 
tered against each other, my father, and 
the helpless little creature to whom their 
mother had bequeathed not more than a 
hundredth part of what she possessed. 
But we were all happy, for Tonita was 
well provided for; she had a comfortable 
income, and we had Tonita. But if she 
had been left penniless she would have 
been welcome and beloved in our home as 
daughter and sister. I do not believe it 
possible that we could have loved our own 
sister more. Gentle, loving, and kind, 
bright, clever, and accomplished, she has 
been for years the joy of our lives and 


173 


A Discovery 

consolation of our father and mother. 
Better than all, in a few months she will 
marry my brother Maurice, who will never 
take her away from us. For myself, I 
have quite decided to remain an old bache- 
lor. 


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1 25 
1 25 
1 00 

0 75 

1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
1 50 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 00 
1 25 
0 75 
0 60 
0 75 / 

0 75 

1 25 
1 50 
1 00 
1 25 
1 00 
1 25 

0 75 

1 25 
1 00 


8 


Through the Desert. Sienkiewicz. net , 1 

Trail of the Dragon. 1 

Training of Silas. Devine. 1 

True Story of Master Gerard. Sadlier. 1 

Turn of the Tide. Gray. net , 0 

Unbidden Guest. Cooke. net ’, 0 

Under the Cedars and Stars. Sheehan. net ’, 2 

Unravelling of a Tangle. Taggart. 1 

Up in Ardmuirland. Barrett. net , 1 

Vocation of Edward Conway. Egan. 1 

Wargrave Trust. Reid. 1 

Way that Led Beyond. Harrison. 1 

Wedding Bells of Glendalough. Earls. net , 1 

When Love is Strong. Keon. 1 

Woman of Fortune. Reid. 1 

World Well Lost. Robertson. 0 

JUVENILES 

Althea. Nirdlinger. 0 

Adventure with the Apaches, An. Ferry. 0 

As Gold in the Furnace. Copus. 0 

As True as Gold. Mannix. 0 

Bell Foundry, The. Schaching. 0 

Berkleys, The. Wight. 0 

Best Foot Forward. Finn. 0 

Between Friends. Aumerle. 0 

Black Lady, The. Schmid. 0 

Bistouri. Melandri. 0 

Blissylvania Post-Office. Taggart. 0 

Bob-o’-Link. Waggaman. 0 

Boys in the Block. Egan. 0 

Brownie and I. Aumerle. 0 

Bunt and Bill. C. Mulholland. 0 

Buzzer’s Christmas. Waggaman. 0 

By Branscome River. Taggart. 0 

Cake, The, and the Easter Eggs. Schmid. 0 

Captain Ted. Waggaman. 0 

Cave by the Beech Fork, The. Spalding. 0 

Charlie Chittywick. Bearne. 0 

Children of Cupa. Mannix. 0 

Children of the Log Cabin. Delamare. 0 

Clare Loraine. “Lee.” 0 

Claude Lightfoot. Finn. 0 

College Boy, A. Yorke. 0 

Cupa Revisited. Mannix. 0 

Daddy Dan. Waggaman. 0 

Dear Friends. Nirdlinger. 0 

Dimpling’s Success. C. Mulholland. 0 

Dollar Hunt, The. E. G. Martin. 0 

Ethelred Preston. Finn. 0 

Every-Day Girl, An. Crowley. 0 

Fatal Diamonds, The. Donnelly. 0 

Five O’Clock Stories. 0 

Flower of the Flock. Egan. 0 

For the White Rose. Hinkson. 0 

9 


35 

00 

25 

25 

i 75 

■ 75 

00 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

35 

25 

25 

75 

60 

45 

85 

45 

45 

45 

85 

85 

25 

45 

45 

45 

25 

85 

45 

25 

45 

25 

60 

85 

85 

45 

85 

85 

85 

85 

45 

45 

60 

45 

45 

85 

45 

25 

75 

85 

45 


Freddy Carr’s Adventures. Garrold. 0 85 

Freddy Carr and His Friends. Garrold. 0 85 

Fred’s Little Daughter. S. T. Smith. 0 45 

Godfrey the Little Hermit. Schmid. 0 25 

Golden Lily, The. Hinkson. 0 45 

Great Captain, The. Hinkson. 0 45 

Guild Boys of Ridingdale. Bearne. 0 85 

Haldeman Children, The. Mannix. 0 45 

Harmony Flats. Whitmire. 0 85 

Harry Dee. Finn. 0 85 

Harry Russell. Copus. 0 85 

Heir of Dreams, An. O’Malley. 0 45 

His First and Last Appearance. Finn. 1 00 

Hop Blossoms, The. Schmid. 0 25 

Hostage of War. Bonesteel. 0 45 

How They Worked Their Way. Egan. 0 75 

In Quest of the Golden Chest. Barton. 1 15 

“Jack.” 0 45 

Jack Hildreth on the Nile. Taggart. 0 85 

Jack O’Lantern. Waggaman. 0 45 

Juniors of St. Bede’s. Bryson. 0 85 

Juvenile Round Table. First Series. 1 00 

Juvenile Round Table. Second Series. 1 00 

Juvenile Round Table. Third Series. 1 00 

Klondike Picnic, A. Donnelly. 0 85 

Lamp of the Sanctuary. Wiseman. 0 25 

Legends and Stories of the Child Jesus from Many 

Lands. Lutz. 0 75 

Little Apostle on Crutches. Delamare. 0 45 

Little Girl from Back East. Roberts. 0 45 

Little Missy. Waggaman. 0 45 

Loyal Blue and Royal Scarlet. Taggart. 0 85 

Madcap Set at St. Anne’s. Brunowe. 0 45 

Making of Mortlake. Copus. 0 85 

Marks of the Bear Claws. Spalding. 0 85 

Mary Tracy’s Fortune. Sadlier. 0 45 

Master Fridolin. Giehrl. 0 25 

Melor of the Silver Hand. Bearne. 0 85 

Milly Aveling. S. T. Smith. 0 85 

More Five O’Clock Stories. 0 75 

Mostly Boys. Finn. 0 85 

My Strange Friend. Finn. 0 25 

Mystery of Cleverly. Barton. 0 85 

Mysterious Doorway. Sadlier. 0 45 

Mystery of Hornby Hall. Sadlier. 0 85 

Nan Nobody. Waggaman. 0 45 

Ned Rieder. Wehs. 0 85 

New Boys at Ridingdale. Bearne. 0 85 

New Scholar at St. Anne’s. Brunowe. 0 85 

Old Charlmont’s Seed Bed. S. T. Smith. 0 45 

Old Mill on the Withrose. Spalding. 0 85 

Old Robber’s Castle. Schmid. 0 25 

Our Lady’s Lutenist. Bearne. 0 85 

Overseer of Mahlbourg. Schmid. 0 25 

Panciio and Panciiita. Mannix. 0 45 

10 


Pauline Archer. Sadlier. 0 45 

Peril of Dionysio. Mannix. 0 45 

Percy Wynn. Finn. 0 85 

Petronilla. Donnelly. 0 85 

Pickle and Pepper. Dorsey. 0 85 

Pilgrim from Ireland. Carnot. 0 45 

Playwater Plot. Waggaman. 0 60 

Poverina. Buckenham. 0 85 

Queen’s Page. Hinkson. 0 45 

Queen’s Promise. Waggaman. 0 60 

Race for Copper Island. Spalding. 0 85 

Recruit Tommy Collins. BonesteeL 0 45 

Ridingdale Flower Show. Bearne. 0 85 

Romance of the Silver Shoon. Bearne. 0 85 

Rose Bush, The. Schmid. 0 25 

Sea-Gulls Rock. Sandeau. 0 45 

Seven Little Marshalls. Nixon-Roulet. 0 45 

Seven Little Marshalls at the Lake. Nixon-Roulet. 0 85 
Shadows Lifted. Copus. 0 85 

Sheer Pluck. Bearne. 0 85 

Sheriff of the Beech Fork. Spalding. 0 85 

St. Cuthbert’s. Copus. 0 85 

Strong Arm of Avalon. Waggaman. 0 85 

Sugar-Camp and After. Spalding. 0 85 

Summer at Woodville. Sadlier. 0 45 

Tales and Legends of the Middle Ages. Copella. 0 75 

Talisman, The. Sadlier. 0 60 

Taming of Polly. Dorsey. 0 85 

That Football Game. Finn. 0 85 

Three Girls and Especially One. Taggart. 0 45 

Three Little Kings. Giehrl. 0 25 

Told in the Twilight. Mother Salome. 0 85 

Tom Losely: Boy. Copus. 0 85 

Tom’s Luck-Pot. Waggaman. 0 45 

Tom Playfair. Finn. 0 85 

Tooralladdy. Walsh. 0 45 

Transplanting of Tessie. Waggaman. 0 60 

Treasure of Nugget Mountain. Taggart. 0 85 

Two Little Girls. Mack. 0 45 

Violin Maker, The. Schaching. 0 45 

Wayward Winifred. Sadlier. 0 85 

Winnetou THE Apache Knight. Taggart. 0 85 

Witch of Ridingdale. Bearne. 0 85 

Young Color Guard. Bonesteel. 0 45 


The following catalogues will be sent free on application: 

Catalogue of Benziger Brothers’ Standard Catholic Publications. 

Catalogue of School Books. Catalogue of Premium Books. 

Catalogue of Prayer Books. Catalogue of Libraries. [Books. 

Catalogue of Imported Books. Catalogue of Latin and Liturgical 

A copy of “Catholic Books in English” now in print in America 
and Europe will be sent on receipt of 50 cents. Bound in cloth, it 
contains over 5,000 titles and over 300 illustrations of authors. 
Supplements will be issued from time to time to make the cata- 
logue as complete as possible, and these will be furnished free of 
charge to those ordering “Catholic Books in English.’ 

11 

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